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Grace Crawley and Lily Dale in the church.— p. 142 

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VOL. I. 




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How DID HE GET IT? ... ... ... ... ... 1 

Bt Heavens he had better not! ... ... ... 13 

The Abohdbaoon's Threat ... ... ... ... ... 22 

The Clbbqyman's House at HoaaLESTooK ... ... ... 27 

What the World thought about it ... ... ... ... 36 

Gmob Crawley ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 42 

M1S8 Prbtttman's Private Room ... ... ... ... 53 

Ms. Crawley is taken to Silverbridge ... ... ... ... 64 

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Geaob Ceawley goes to Allington 



The Bishop sends his Inhibition 

Mb. Ceawley seeks fob Sympathy 


The Bishop's Angel 

Majob Geantly Consults a Feiend 

Up in London ... 

Down at Allington 



Mb. Ceawley is Summoned to Babohesteb 

The Bishop of Babohesteb is Ceushed ... 


WhBEB did it OOME FBOM 1 

What Mb. Walkeb thought about it ... 



... 95 

... 104 

.. 113 


... 129 

... 142 


... 165 

... 176 

... 181 

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" I CAN never bring myseK to believe it, John," said Mary "Walker, the 
pretty daughter of Mr. George Walker, attorney of Silverbridge. 
"Walker and "Winthrop was the name of the firm, and they were 
respectable people, who did all the solicitors' business that had to be 
done in that part of Barsetshire on behalf of the Crown, were employed 
on the local business of the Duke of Omnium, who is great in those 
parts, and altogether held their heads up high, as provincial lawyers 
often do. They, — the "Walkers, — lived in a great brick house in the 
middle of the town, gave dinners, to which the county gentlemen not 
unfrequently condescended to come, and in a mild way led the fashion 
in Silverbridge. " I can never bring myself to believe it, John," said 
Miss "Walker. 

"You'll have to bring yourself to believe it," said John, without 
taking his eyes from his book. 

" A clergyman, — and such a clergyman too ! " 

" I don't see that that has anything to do with it." And as he now 
spoke John did take his eyes off his book. ""Why should not a 
clergyman turn thief as well as anybody else ] You girls always seem 
to forget that clergymen are only men after all." 

VOL. I. B 

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"Their conduct is likely to be better than that of other men, I 

" I deny it utterly," said John Walker. " I'll undertake to say that 
at this moment there are more clergymen in debt in Barsetshire than 
there are either lawyers or doctors. This man has always been in debt. 
Since he has been in the county I don't think he has ever been <\;)le to 
show his face in the High Street of Silverbridge." 

"John, that .is saying more than you have a right to say," said Mrs- 

" Why, mother, this very cheque was given to a butcher who had 
threatened a few days before to post bills all about the county, giving 
ftn account of the debt that was due to him, if the money was not paid 
at once." 

"More shame for Mr. Fletcher," said Mary. "He has made a 
fortune as butcher in Silverbridge." 

" What has that to do with it 1 Of course a man likes to have his 
money. He had written three times to the bishop, and he had sent a 
man over to Hogglestock to get his little bill settled six days running. 
You see he got it at last. Of course a tradesman must look for his 

"Mamma, do you think that Mr. Crawley stole the cheque 1" 
Mary, as she asked the question, came and stood over her mother, 
looking at her with anxious eyes. 

" I would rather give no opinion, my dear." 

" But you must think something when everybody is talking about 
it, mamma." 

" Of course my mother thinks he did," said John, going back to his 
book. " It is impossible that she should think otherwise." 

"That is not fair, John," said Mrs. Walker; "and I won*t have 
you fabricate thoughts for me, or put the expression of them into 
my mouth. The whole affair is very painful, and as your father is 
engaged in the inquiry I think that the less said about the matter in 
this house the better. I am sure that that would be your father's 

"Of course I should say nothing about it before him," said Mary. 
" t know that papa does not wish to have it talked about. But how 
is one to help thinking aboYit such a thing ? It would be so terrible 
for aU of us who belong to the Church." 

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"I do not see that af^'all," said John. " Mr. Crawley is not more 
than any other man jufe hecause he's a clergyman. I hate all that 
kind of clap-trap. There are a lot of people here in Silverbridge who 
tnmk the matter shouldn't be followed up because the man is in a 
position which- makes the crime more criminal in him than it would 
be in another." 

" But I feel sure t^at Mr. Crawley has committed no crime at all/* 
said Mary. 

"My dear," saidy^Mrs. Walker, "I have just said that I would 
rather you would afot talk about it. Papa will be in directly." 

" I won't, mam|&a ;— only " 

"Only! yeyf'just only!" said John. "She'd go on till dinner 
if ajiy one w^d gtay to hear her." 

" You've f^aid twice as much as I have, John." But John had left 
the room by.fore his sister's last words could reach hii)i. 

" You k noyf^ mamma, it is quite impossible not to help thinking of 
it,'^'^said Y^axy. 

" ^^i/re say it is, my dear." 

j^^ when one knows the people it does make it so dread- 

an *' But do you know them 1 I never spoke to Mr. Crawley in my 
life, and I do not think I ever saw her." 

" I knew Grace very well ; — when she used to come first to Miss 
Prettyman's school." 

** Poor girl. I pity- her." 

" Pity her ! Pity is no word for it, mamma. My heart bleeds for 
them. And yet I do not believe for a moment that he stole the cheque. 
How can it be possible? For though he may have been in debt 
because they have been so very, very poor ; yet we all know that he 
has been an excellent clergyman. When the Eobartses were dining 
here last I heard Mrs. Eobarts say that for piety and devotion to his 
duties she had hardly ever seen any one equal to him. And the 
Eobartses know more of them than anybody." 
^ ' " They say that the dean is his great friend." 

" What a pity it is that the Arabins should be away just now when 
he is in such trouble." And in this way the mother and daughter 
went on discussing the question of the clergyman's guilt in spite of 
Mrs. Walker's previously expressed desire that nothing more might be 


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said about it. But Mrs. Walker, like many -jther mothers, was apt to 
be more free in converse with her daughter tl^ she was with her soil 
While they were thus talking the father cam^ in from his office, and 
then the subject was dropped. He was a man between fifty and sixty 
years of age, with grey hair, rather short, and somewhat corpulent, 
but still gifted with that amount of personal comeline« which com- 
fortable position and the respect of others will generally seem to give. 
A man rarely carries himself meanly whom th^ world holds high m 
esteem. I 

" I am very tired, my dear," said Mr. Walker. \ 

" You look tired. Come and sit down for a few Wnutes before yon 
dress. Mary, get your father's slippers.'* Mary inSlt^tly ran to the 
door. ^ 

" Thanks, my darHng," said the father. And then he^whispered to 
his wife, as soon as Mary was out of hearing, " I fear that yunfortunate 
man is guilty. I fear he is ! I fear he is ! " 

" Oh, heavens ! what will become of themi" 

" What indeed 1 She has been with me to-day.*' 

" Has she 1 And what could you say to her 1 " 

" I told her at first that I could not see her, and begged her ] 
speak to me about it. I tried to make her understand that she i 
go to some one else. But it was of no use." 

"And how did it end?" 

" I asked her to go in to you, but she declined. She said you could 
do nothing for her." 

" And does she think her husband guilty 1 " 

" No, indeed. She think him guilty ! Nothing on earth, — or from 
heaven either, as I take it, would make her suppose it to be possible. 
She came to me simply to tell me how good he was." 

" I love her for that," said Mrs. Walker. 

"So did I. But what is the good of loving herl Thank you, 
dearest. I'll get your slippers for you some day, perhaps." 

The whole county was astir in this matter of the alleged guilt of 
the Reverend Josiah Crawley, — ^the whole county, almost as keenly as 
the family of Mr. Walker, of Silverbridge. The crime laid to his 
1 charge was the theft of a cheque for twenty pounds, which he was said 
to have stolen out of a pocket-book left or dropped in his house, and 
to have passed as money into the hands of one Fletcher, a butcher of 

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Silverbridge, to whom he was indebted. Mr. Crawley was in those 
days the perpetual curate of Hogglestock, a parish in the northern 
extremity of East Barsetshire ; a man known by all who knew anything 
of him to be very poor, — an unhappy, moody, disappointed man, upon 
whom the troubles of the world always seemed to come with a double 
weight. But he had ever been respected as a clergyman, since his old 
friend Mr. Arabin, the dean of Barchester, had given him, the small 
incumbency which he now held. Though moody, unhappy, and dis- 
appointed, he was a hard-working, conscientious pastor among the poor 
people with whom his lot was cast ; for in the parish of Hogglestock 
there resided only a few farmers higher in degree than field labourers, 
briekmakers, and such-like. Mr. Crawley had now passed some ten 
years of his life at Hogglestock ; and during those years he had worked 
very hard to do his duty, struggHng to teach the people around him 
perhaps too much of the mystery, but something also of the comfort, 
of rehgion. That he had become popular in his parish cannot be said 
of him. He was not a man to make himself popular in any position. 
I have said that he was moody and disappointed. He was even worse 
than this; he was morose, sometimes almost to insanity There had 
been days in which even his wife had found it impossible to deal with 
him otherwise than as with an acknowledged lunatic. And this was 
known among the farmers, who talked about their clergyman among 
themselves as though he were a madman. But among the very poor, 
among the briekmakers of Hoggle End, — a lawless, drunken, terribly 
rough lot of humanity, — ^he was held in high respect ; for they knew 
that he lived hardly, as they lived ; that he worked hard, as they 
worked; and that the outside world was hard to him, as it was to 
them ; and there had been an apparent sincerity of godliness about the 
man, and a manifest struggle to do his duty in spite of the world's 
ill-usage, which had won its way even with ths rough ; so that Mr. 
Crawley's name had stood high with many in his parish, in spite of 
the unfortunate peculiarity of his disposition. This was the man who 
was now accused of stealing a cheque for twenty pounds. 

But before the circumstances of the alleged theft are stated a wprd 
or two must be said as to Mr. Crawley's family. It is declared that a 
good wife is a crown to her husband, but Mrs. Crawley had been much 
more than a crown to him. As had regarded all the inner life of the 
man, — all that portion of his life which had not been passed in the 

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pulpit or in pastoral teaching, — she had been crown, throne, and 
sceptre all in one. That she had endured with him and on his behalf 
the miseries of poverty, and the troubles of a life which had known no 
smiles, is perhaps not to be alleged as much to her honour. She had 
joined herself to him for better or worse, and it was her manifest 
duty to bear such things. Wives always have to bear them, knowing 
when theY marry that they must take their chance. Mr. Crawley 
might have been a bishop, and Mrs. Crawley, when she married him> 
perhaps thought it probable that such would be his fortune. Instead 
of that he was now, just as he was approaching his fiftieth year, a 
perpetual curate, with an income of one hundred and thirty pounds 
per annum, — and a family. That had been Mrs. Crawley's luck in life, 
and of course she bore it. But she had also done much more than 
this. She had striven hard to be contented, or, rather, to appear to 
be contented, when he had been most wretched and most moody. She 
had struggled to conceal from him her own conviction as to his half- 
insanity, treating him at the same time with the respect due to an 
honoured father of a family, and with the careful measured indulgence 
fit for a sick and wayward child. In all the terrible troubles of their 
life her courage had been higher than his. The metal of which she 
was made had been tempered to a steel which was very rare and fine, 
but the rareness and fineness of which he had failed, if to appreciate, 
at any rate to imitate. He had often told her that she was without 
pride, because she had stooped to receive from others, on his behalf 
and on behalf of her children, things which were very needful, but 
■which she could not buy. He had told her that she was a beggar, and 
that it was better to starve than to beg. She had borne the rebuke 
without a word in reply, and had then begged again for him and 
had endured the starvation herseK. Nothing in their poverty had, for 
years past, been a shame to her ; but every accident of their poverty 
was stiU, and ever had been, a living disgrace to him. 

They had had many children, and three were stiU alive. Of the 
eldest, Grace Crawley, we shall hear much in the coming story. She 
■was at this time nineteen years old, and there were those who said 
that, in spite of her poverty, her shabby outward apparel, and a certain 
thin, unfledged, unrounded form of person, a want of fulness in the 
lines of her figure, she was the prettiest girl in that part of the world. 
She was living now at a school in Silverbridge, where for the last year 

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slie had been a teacher; and there were many in Silverhridge who 
(Jeclared that very bright prospects were opening to her, — ^that young 
Major Grantly of Cosby Lodge, who, though a widower with a young 
child, was the cynosure of all female eyes in and round Silverbridge, 
had found beauty in her thin face, and that Grace Crawley'9 fortune 
was made in the teeth, as it were, of the prevailing ill-fortune pf h^r 
family. Bob Crawley, who was two years younger, was now at 
Marlbro* School, from whence it was intended that he should proceed 
to Cambridge and be educated there at the expense of his godfather, 
Dean Arabin. In this also the world saw a stroke of good luck. But 
then nothing was lucky to Mr. Crawley. Bob, indeed, who had done 
very well at school, might do well at Cambridge, — might do great 
things there. But Mr. Crawley would almost have preferred, that the 
boy should work in the fields, than that he should be educated in a 
manner so manifestly eleemosynary. And then his clothes I How 
was he to be provided with clothes fit either for school or for college 1 
But the dean and Mrs. Crawley between them managed this, leaving 
Mr. Crawley very much in the dark, as Mrs. Crawley was in the habit 
of leaving him. Then there was a younger daughter, Jane, still at 
home, who passed her life between her mother's work-table and her 
lather's Creek, mending linen and learning to scan iambics, — for Mr. 
Crawley in his early days had been a ripe scholar. 

And now there had conie upon them all this terribly-crushing 

disaster. That poor Mr. Crawley had gradually got himself into a 

mess of debt at Silverbridge, from which he was quite unable to ei^tri- 

cate himself, was generally known by all the world both of Silverbridge 

and Hogglestock. To a great many it was known that Dean Arabin 

Jad paid money for him, very much contrary to his own consent, and 

iLat he had quarrelled, or attempted to quarrel, with the dean in 

nsequence, — had so attempted, although the money had in part 

jjissed through his own hands. There had been one creditor, Fletcher, 

e butcher of Silverbridge, who had of late been specially hard upon 

r Crawley. This man, who had not been without good nature in 

s dealings, had heard stories of the dean's good-wiU and such-like, 

d had loudly expressed his opijiion that the perpetual curate of 

ogglestock would show a higher pride in allowing himself to be 

I debted to a rich brother clergyman, than in remaining under thrall 

* a butcher. And thus a rumour had grown up. And then the 

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butcher had written repeated letters to the hi shop, — to Bishop Proudie 
of Barchester, — who had at first caused his chaplain to answer them, and' 
had told Mr. Crawley somewhat roundly what was his opinion of a 
clergyman who eat meat and did not pay for it. But nothing that the 
bishop could say or do enabled Mr. Crawley to pay the butcher. It 
was very grievous to such a man as Mr. Crawley to receive these letters 
from such a man as Bishop Proudie. The letters came, and made 
festering wounds, but then there was an end of them. And at last 
there had come forth from the butcher's shop a threat that if the money 
were not paid by a certain date, printed bills should be posted about 
the county. All who heard of this in Silverbridge were very angry 
with Mil Fletcher, for no one there had ever known a tradesman to 
take such a step before ; but Fletcher swore that he would persevere, 
and defended himself by showing that six or seven months since, in 
the spring of the year, Mr. Crawley had been paying money in Silver- 
bridge, but had paid none to him, — to him who had been not only his 
earliest but his most enduring creditor. " He got money from the 
dean in March," said Mr. Fletcher to Mr. Walker, "and he paid 
twelve poimds ten to Green, and seventeen pounds to Grobury, the 
baker." It was that seventeen pounds to Grobury, the baker, for 
flour, which made the butcher so fixedly determined to smite the poor 
clergyman hip and thigh. " And he paid money to Hall, and to Mrs. 
Holt, and to a deal more ; but he never came near my shop. If he had 
even shown himseK I would not have said so much about it." And , 
then a day before the date named, Mrs. Crawley had come to Silv^t r. 
bridge, and had paid the butcher twenty pounds in four five-pounfl d 
notes. So far Fletcher the butcher had been successful. fe 

Some six weeks after this, inquiry began to be made as to a certaip n 
cheque for twenty pounds drawn by Lord Lufton on his bankers i^ a 
London, which cheque had been lost early in the spring by Mr. Soame^ ?, 
Lord Lufton's man of business in Barsetshire, together with a pocket fc- 
book in which it had been folded. This pocket-book Soames haL d 
beUeved himself to have left at Mr. Crawley's house, and had gone sk > 
far, even at the time of the loss, as to express his absolute convictio^ ' 
that he had so left it. He was in tiie habit of paying a rentcharge % > 
Mr. Crawley on behalf of Lord Lufton, amounting to twenty pounci i; 
four shillings, every half-year. Lord Lufton held the large tithes d 
Hogglestock, and paid annually a sum of forty pounds eight shilling ^ 

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to the incumbent. This amount "was, as a rule, remitted punctually 
by Mr. Soames through the post. On the occasion now spoken of he 
bad had some reason for visiting Hogglestock and had paid the money 
personally to Mr. Crawley. Of so much there was no doubt. But he 
bad paid it by a cheque drawn by himself on his own bankers at 
Barchester, and that cheque had been cashed in the ordinary way on 
the next morning. On returning to his own house in Barchester 
be had missed his pocket-book, and had written ta Mr. Crawley to 
make inquiry. There had been no money in it, beyond the cheque 
drawn by Lord Lufton for twenty pounds. Mr. Crawley had answered 
this letter by another, saying that no pocket-book had been found in 
his house. All this had happened in March. 

In October, Mrs. Crawley paid the twenty pounds to Fletcher, the 

butcher, and in November Lord Lufton's cheque was traced back 

, through the Barchester bank to Mr. Crawley's hands. A brickmaker 

of Hoggle End, much favoured by Mr. Crawley, had asked for change 

over the counter of this Barchester bank, — not, as will be understood, 

the bank on which the cheque was drawn, — and had received it. The 

accommodation had been refused to the man at first, but when he 

presented the cheque the second day, bearing Mr. Crawley's name on the 

back of it, together with a note from Mr. Crawley himself, the money 

had been given for it ; and the identical notes so paid had been given 

to Fletcher, the butcher, on the next day by Mrs. Crawley. When 

^inquiry was made, Mr. Crawley stated that the cheque had been paid 

% him by Mr. Soames, on behalf of the rentcharge due to him by 

^Lord Lufton. But the error of this statement was at once made 

' manifest. There was the cheque, signed by Mr. Soames himself, for 

•the exact amount, — twenty pounds four shillings. As he himself 

■ declared, he had never in his life paid money on behalf of Lord Lufton 

by a cheque drawn by his lordship. The cheque given by Lord Lufton, 

ind which had been lost, had been a private matter between them. 

lis lordship had simply wanted change in his pocket, and his agent 

r had given it to him. Mr. Crawley was speedily shown to be altogether 

Tong in the statement made to account for possession of the cheque. 

Then he became very moody and would say nothuig further. But 
wife, who had known nothing of his first statement when made, 

ime forward and declared that she believed the cheque for twenty 

>unds to be a part of a present given by Dean Arabin to her husband 

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in April last. There had been, she said, great heartburnings about 
this gift, and she had hardly dared to speak to her husband on the 
subject. An execution had been threatened in the house by Grobury, 
the baker, of which the dean had heard. Then there had been some 
scenes at the deanery between her husband and the dean and Mrs. 
Arabin, as to which she had subsequently heard much from Mrs. 
Arabin. Mrs. Arabin had told her that money had been given, — and 
at last taken. Indeed, so much had been very apparent, as bills had. 
been paid to the amount of at least fifty pounds. "When the threat 
made by the butcher had reached her husband's ears, the effect upon 
him had been very grievous. All this was the story told by Mrs. 
Crawley to Mr. Walker, the lawyer, when he was pushing his inquiries. 
She, poor woman, at any rate told all that she knew. Her husband 
had told her one morning, when the butcher's threat was weighing 
heavily on his mind, speaking to her in such a humour that she found 
it impossible to cross-question him, that he had still money left, though 
it was money which he had hoped that he would not be driven to use ; 
and he had given her the four live-pound notes, and had told her to go 
to Silverbridge and satisfy the man who was so eager for his money. 
She had done so, and had felt no doubt that the money so forthcoming 
had been given by the dean. That was the story as told by Mrs- 

But how could she explain her husband's statement as to the cheque, 
which had been shown to be altogether false ] All this passed between 
Mr. Walker and Mrs. Crawley, and the lawyer was very gentle with, 
her. In the first stages of the inquiry he had simply desired to learn 
the truth, and place the clergyman above suspicion. Latterly, being 
bound as he was to follow the matter up oflScially, he would not have 
seen Mrs. Crawley, had he been able to escape that lady's importunity. 
" Mr.- Walker," she had said, at last, " you do not know my husband. 
^0 one knows him but I. It is hard to have to tell you of all our 
troubles." " If I can lessen them, trust me that I will do so," said the 
lawyer. " No one, I think, can lessen them in this world," said tbe 
lady. " The truth is, sir, that my husband often knows not what lie 
says. When he declared that the money had been paid to him by JVIr. 
Soames, most certainly he thought so. There are times when in his 
misery he knows not what he says, — when he forgets everything." 

Up to this period Mr. Walker had not suspected Mr. Crawley o£ 

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•nytliiDg dishonest, nor did he suspect him as yet. The poor man had 
prohably received the money from the dean, and had told the lie about 
it, not choosing to own that he had taken money from his rich friend, 
ttid thinking that there would be no further inquiry. He had been 
Tery foolish, and that would be the end of it. Mr. Soames was by no 
means so good-natured in his belief. " How should my pocket-book 
have got into Dean Arabin*s hands 1 " said Mr. Soames, almost triumph- 
intly. " And then I felt sure at the time that I had left it at Crawley's 
house ! " 

Mr. Walker wrote a letter to the dean, who at that moment was in 
Florence, on his way to Kome, from whence he was going on to the 
Holy Land. There came back a letter from Dr. Arabin, saying that 
on the 17th of March he had given to Mr. Crawiey a sum of fifty 
pounds, and that the payment had been made with five Bank of Eng- 
I land notes of ten pounds each, which had been handed by him to his 
friend in the library at the deanery. The letter was very short, and 
may, perhaps, be described as having been almost curt. Mr. Walker, 
IB his anxiety to do the best he could for Mr. Crawley, had simply 
nked a question as to the nature of the transaction between the two 
fBntlemen, saying that no doubt the dean's answer would clear up a 
&tle mystery which existed at present respecting a cheque for twenty 
peunds. The dean in answer simply stated the fact as it has been 
liven above ; but he wrote to Mr. Crawley begging to know what was 
ii truth this new difl&culty, and offering .any assistance in his power. 
& explained all the circmmstances of the money, as he remembered 
fcm. The sum advanced had certainly consisted of fifty pounds, and 
•ere had certainly been five Bank of England notes. He had put the 
■iBfces into an envelope, which he had not closed, but had addressed to 
]k. Crawley, and had placed this envelope in his friend's hands. He 
t on to .say that Mrs. Arabin would have written, but that she was 
Paris with her son. Mrs. Arabin was to remain in Paris during his 
lence in the Holy Land, and meet him in Italy on his return. As 
was so much nearer &t hand, the dean expressed a hope that Mrs. 
twley would apply to her if there was any trouble. 
The letter to Mr. Walker was conclusive as to the dean's money. 
Crawley had not received Lord Luf ton's cheque from the dean. 
n whence had he received iti The poor wife was left by the 
er to obtain further information from her husband. Ah, who can 

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tell how terrible were the scenes between that poor pair of wretches, 
the wife endeavoured to learn the truth from her miserable, hal 
maddened husband ! That her husband had been honest througho 
she had not any shadow of doubt. She did not doubt that to her 
least he endeavoured to tell the truth, as far as his poor rack 
imperfect memory would allow him to remember what was true arid 
what was not true. The upshot of it all was that the husband declare d 
that he still believed that the money had come to him from the dea: i 
He had kept it by him, not wishing to use it if he could help it. IJe 
had forgotten it, — so he said at times, — having understood from Arabin 
that he was to have fifty pounds, and having received more. If it liad, 
not come to him from the dean, then it had been sent to him by the. 
Prince of Evil for his utter undi>ing; and there were times in which hel; 
seemed to think that such had been the manner in which the fatal 
cheque had reached him. In all that he said he was terribly confused,'^ 
contradictory, unintelligible, — speaking almost as a madman might^J-' 
speak, — ending always by declaring that the cruelty of the world ha^jj 
been too much for him, that the waters were meeting over his head, 
and praying for God's mercy to remove him from the world. It need, 
hardly be said that his poor wife in these days had a burden on Ik 
shoulders that was more than enough to crush any woman. 

She at last acknowledged to Mr. Walker that she could not accoum 
for the twenty pounds. She herself would write again to the deanj 
about it, but she hardly hoped for any further assistance there. " The[ 
dean's answer is very plain," said Mr. Walker. "He says that he 
gave Mr. Crawley five ten-pound notes, and those five notes we have' 
traced to Mr. Crawley's hands." Then Mrs. Crawley could say nothing 
further beyond making protestations of her husband's innocence. 

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I MUST ask the reader to make the acquaintance of Major Grantly 

of Cosby Lodge, before he is introduced to the family of Mr. Crawley, 

at their parsonage in Hogglestock. It has been said that Major 

Giiantly had thrown a favourable eye on Grace Crawley, — ^by which 

report occasion was given to all men and women in those parts to hint 

ikat the Craw leys, with all their piety and humility, were very cunning, 

ltd that one of the Grantlys was, — to say the least of it, — very soft, 

•imitted as it was throughout the county of Barsetshire, that there was 

B0 family therein more widely awake to the affairs generally of this 

iiDrld and the next combined, than the family of which Archdeacon 

Ckantly was the respected head and patriarch. Mrs. Walker, the most 

good-natured woman in Silverbridge, had acknowledged to her daughtei 

tliat she could not understand it, — that she could not see anything at 

afl in Grace Crawley. Mr. Walker had shrugged his shoulders and 

eipressed a confident belief that Jd^ajor Grantly had not a shilling of 

Iw own beyond his half-pay and his late wife's fortune, which was 

otly six thousand pounds. Others, who were ill-natured, had declared 

4at Grace Crawley was little better than a beggar, and that she could 

net possibly have acquired the manners of a gentlewoman. Fletcher 

tb butcher had wondered whether the major would pay his future 

fi*lier-in-law's debts ; and Dr. Tempest, the old rector of Silverbridge, 

^ose four daughters were all as yet unmarried, had turned up his old 

Btee, and had hinted that half-pay majors did not get caught in 

fflirrij^e so easily as that. 

Such and such like had been the expressions of the opinion of men 
aad women in Silverbridge. But the matter had been discussed further 
afield than at Silverbridge, and had been allowed to intrude itself as a 
nJOst unwelcome subject into the family conclave of the archdeacon's 

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rectory. To those who have not as yet learned the fact from the puU 
character and well-appreciated reputation of the man, let it be kno^ 
ihat Archdeacon Grantly was at this time, as he had been for mai 
years previously, Archdeacon of Barchester and Rector of Plumstet 
EpiscopL A rich and prosperous man he had ever betn, — though '. 
also had had his sore troubles, as we all have, —his having arisen chiei 
from want of that higher ecclesiastical promotion which his soul h 
coveted, and for which the whole tenour of his life had especially fitt^ 
him. Now, in his green old age, he had ceased to covet, but had i 
ceased to repine. He had ceased to covet aught for himself, but si 
coveted much for his children ; and for him such a marriage as tl 
which was now suggested for his son was encompassed almost with d 
bitterness of death. " I think it would kill me," he had said to 
wife ; " by heavens, I think it would be my death ! " 

A daughter of the archdeacon had made a splendid matrimoni 
alliance, — so splendid that its history was at the time known to all 
aristocracy of the county, and had not been altogether forgotten by a^ 
of those who keep themKt^es well instructed in the details of 
peei-age. Griselda Granthnhad married Lord Dumbello, the eldest 
of the Marquis of Hartleticp, — than whom no English nobleman 
more puissant, if broad acfes, many castles, high title, and stars an 
ribbons are any signs of puissance, — and she was now, herself. Mi 
chioness of Hartletop, with a little Lord Dumbello of her own. Th 
daughter's visits to the parsonage of her father were of necessity ran 
such necessity having come from her own altered sphere of life. 
Marchioness of Hartletop has special duties which will hardly permi 
her to devote herself frequently to the humdrum society of a cleri( 
father and mother. That it would be so, father and mother had undi 
stood when they sent the fortunate girl forth to a higher world. Bui 
now and again, since her august marriage, she had laid her coronete 
head upon one of the old rectory pillows for a night or so, and on sucl 
occasions all the Plumsteadians had been loud in praise of her coi 
descension. Now it happened that when this second and more aggra 
vated blast of the evil wind reached the rectory, — the renewed waft a 
the tidings as to Major Grantly 's infatuation regarding Miss Gra< 
Crawley, which, on its renewal, seemed to bring with it something < 
confirmation, — it chanced, I say, that at that moment Griselda, Mai 
chioness of Hartletop, was gracing the paternal mansion. It nee( 

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hardly be said that the father was not slow to invoke such a daughter's 
counsel, and such a sister's aid. 

I am not quite sure that the mother would have been equally quick 
to ask her daughter's advice had she been left in the matter entirely 
to her own propensities. Mrs. Grantly had ever loved her daughter 
dearly, and had been very proud of that great success in life which 
G-riselda had achieved; but in late years, the child had become, as 
a woman, separate from the mother, and there had arisen, not unna- 
turally, a break of that close confidence which in early years had 
existed between them. Griselda, Marchioness of Hartletop, was more 
^n ever a daughter to the archdeacon, even though he might never 
see her. Nothing could rob him of the honour of such a progeny, — 
nothing, even though there had been actual estrangement between 
them. But it was not so with Mrs. Grantly. Griselda had done very 
well, and Mrs. Grantly had rejoiced ; but she had lost her child. Now 
the major, who had done well also, though in a much lesser degree, 
lias still her child, moving in the same sphere of life with her, still 
dependent in a great degree upon his fat^ ^r's bounty, a neighbour in 
Ae county, a frequent visitor at the parso ige, and a visitor who could 
he received without any of that trouble w ch attended the unfrequent 
comings of Griselda, the marchioness, to the home of her youth. And 
JlT this reason Mrs. Grantly, terribly put out as she was at the idea 
ct a marriage between her son and one standing so poorly in the 
"World's esteem as Grace Crawley, would not have brought forward the 
Matter before her daughter, had she been left to her own desires. A 
Marchioness in one's family is a tower of strength, no doubt ; but there 
tfe counsellors so strong that we do not wish to trust them, lest in 
Ae trusting we ourselves be overwhelmed by their strength. Now 
Mrs. Grantly was by no means willing to throw her influence into the 
hinds of her titled daughter. 

But the titled daughter was consulted and gave her advice. On the 
■•casion of the present visit to Plumstead she had consented to lay 
llr head for two nights on the parsonage pillows, and on the second 
etening her brother the major was to come over from Cosby Lodge 
-to meet her. Before his coming the affair of Grace Crawley was dis- 

"It would break my heart, Griselda " said the archdeacon, piteously, 
— •" and your mother's." 

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" There is nothing against the girFs character," said Mrs. Grantly, 
" and the father and mother are gentlefolks by birth ; but such a mar- 
riage for Henry would be very unseemly." 

" To make it worse, there is this terrible story about him," said the 

" I don't suppose there is much in that," said Mrs. Grantly. 

" I can't say. There is no knowing. They told me to-day in Bar- 
chester that Soames is pressing the case against him." 

** Who is Soames, papal" asked the marchioness. 

" He is Lord Lufton*s man of business, my dear." 

" Oh, Lord Lufton's man of business ! " There was something of a 
sneer in the tone of the lady's voice as she mentioned Lord Luftpn's 

" I am told," continued the archdeacon, " that Soames declares the 
cheque was taken from a pocket-book which he left by accident in 
Crawley's house." 

"You don't mean to say, archdeacon, that you think that Mr. 
Crawley, — a clergyman, — stole it ! " said Mrs. Grantly. 

" I don't say anything of the kind, my dear. But supposing Mr. 
Crawley to be as honest as the sun, you wouldn't wish Henry to marry 
his daughter." 

" Certainly not," said the mother. " It would be an unfitting mar- 
riage. The poor girl has had no advantages." - 

" He is not able even to pay his baker's bilL I always thought 
Arabin was very wrong to place such a man in such a parish as Hoggle- 
stock. Of course the family could not live there." The Arabin here 
spoken of was Dr. Arabin, dean of Barchester. The dean and the 
archdeacon had married sisters, and there was much intimacy between 
the families. 

" After all it is only a rumour as yet," said Mrs. Grantly. 

• * Fothergill told me only yesterday, that he sees her almost every 
day," said the father. "What are we to do, Griseldal You know 
how headstrong Henry is." The marchioness sat quite still ; looking 
at the fire, and made no immediate answer to this address. 

" There is nothing for it, but that you should tell him what you 
think," said the mother. 

" If his sister were to speak to him, it might do much," said the 
archdeacon. To this Mrs. Grantly said nothiug; but Mrs. Grantiyfe 

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daiighter understood very well that her mother's confidence in her was 
not equal to her father's. Lady Hartletop said nothing, but still sat, 
with impassive face, and eyes fixed upon the fire. " I think that if 
you were to speak to him, Griselda, and tell him that he would dis- 
grace his family, he would be ashamed to go on with such a marriage," 
said the father. "He would feel, connected as he is with Lord 
Hartletop " 

"I don't think he would feel anything about that," said Mrs. 

" I dare say not," said Lady Hartletop. 

"I am sure he ought to feel it," said the father. They were all 
silent, and sat looking at the fire. 

" I suppose, papa, you allow Henry an income," said Lady Hartle- 
top, after a while. 

" Indeed I do, — eight hundred a year." 

" Then I think I should tell him that that must depend upon his 
conduct. Mamma, if you won't mind ringing the bell, I will send for 
Cecile, and go upstairs and dress." Then the marchioness went upstairs 
to dress, and in about an hour the major arrived in his dog-cart. He 
also was allowed to go upstairs to dress before anything was said to him 
about his great offence. 

"Griselda is right," said the archdeacon, speaking to his wife out 
of his dressing-room. " She always was right. I never knew a young 
woman with more sense than Griselda." 

"But you do not mean to say that in any event you would stop 
Henry's income 1" Mrs. Grantly also was dressing, and made reply 
out of her bed-room. 

" Upon my word, I don't know. As a father I would do anything 
to prevent such a marriage as that." 

" But if he did marry her in spite of the threat 1 And he would if 
he had once said so." 

" Is a father's word, then, to go for nothing ; and a father who allows 
his son eight hundred a year ? If he told the girl that he would be 
ruined she couldn't hold him to it." 

" My dear, they'd know as well as I do, that you would give way 
after three months." 

" But why should I give way % Good heavens ! " 
VOL. I. • o 

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" Of course you'd give way, and of course we should have the young 
woman here, and of course we should make the heat of it/' 

The idea of having Grace Crawley as a daughter at the Plumstead 
Eectory wa? too much for the archdeacon, and he resented it by 
additional vehemence in the tone of his voice, and a nearer personal 
approach to the wife of his bosom. All unaccoutred as he was, he 
stood in the doorway between the two rooms, and thence fulminated at 
his wife his assurances that he would never allow himself to be immersed 
in such a depth of humility as that she had suggested. '' I can tell you 
this, then, that if ever she comes here, I shall take care to be away. I 
will never receive her here. You can do as you please." 

"That is just what I cannot do. K I could do as I pleased, I 
would put a stop to it at once." 

" It seems to me that you want to encourage him. A child about 
sixteen years of age ! " 

" I am told she is nineteen.^ 

"What does it matter if she was fifty-nine 1 Think of what 
her bringing up has been. Think what it would be to have all the 
Crawleys in our house -for ever, and aU their debts, and all their 
dbgrace ! " 

" I do not know that they have ever been disgraced." 

"You'll see. The wh(»le county has heard of the affair of this 
twenty pounds. Look at tjbat dear girl upstairs, who has been such a 
comfort to us. Do you think it would be fit that she and her husband 
should meet such a one as Grace Crawley at our table 1 " 

" I don't think it would do them a bit of harm," said Mrs. Grantly. 
" But there would be no chance of that, seeing that Griselda's husband 
never comes to us." 

" He was here the year before last." 

" And I never was so tired of a man in all my life." 

" Then you prefer the Crawleys, I suppose. This is what you get 
from Eleanor's teaching." Eleanor was the dean's wife, and Mrs. 
Grantly's younger sister. " It has always been a sorrow to me that I 
ever brought Arabin into the diocese." 

" I never asked you to bring him, archdeacon. But nobody was so 
glad as you when he proposed to Eleanor." 

'* Well, the long and the short of it is this, I shall tell Henry to- 
night that if he makes a fool of himself with this girl, he must not loak 

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Google J 


to me any longer for an income. He has about six hundred a year of 
his own, and if he chooses to throw himself away, he had better go and 
live in the south of France, or in Canada, or where he pleases. He 
shan't come here." 

"I hope he won't marry the girl, with all my heart," said Mrs. 

" He had better not. By heavens, he had better not ! " 

" But if he does you'U be the first to forgive him." 

On hearing this the archdeacon slammed the door, and retired to 
Ms washing apparatus. At the present moment he was very angry with 
his wife, but then she was so accustomed to such anger, and was so well 
aware that it in truth meant nothing, that it did not make her unhappy. 
The archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly had now been man and wife for more 
than a quarter of a century, and had never in truth quarrelled. He 
had the most profound respect for her judgment, and the most implicit 
reliance on her conduct. She had never yet offended him, or caused 
him to repent the hour in which he had made her Mrs. Grantly. But 
she had come to understand that she might use a woman's privilege 
with her tongue ; and she used it, — not altogether to his comfort. On 
the present occasion he was the more annoyed because he felt that she 
mi^t he right. " It would be a positive disgrace, and I never would 
see him again," he said to himself. And yet, as he said it, he kn^w that 
he would not have the strength of character to carry him through a 
prolonged quarrel with his son. "I never would see her, — ^never, 
never ! " he said to himself. " And then such an opening as he might 
have at his sister's house ! " 

Major Grantly had been a successful man in life, — ^with the one 
exception of having lost the mother of his child within a twelvemonth 
of hia marriage and within a few hours of that child's birth. He had 
served in India as a very young man, and had been decorated with the 
Victoria Cross. Then he had married a lady with some monqy, and 
liad left the active service of the army with the concurring advice of 
Jiis own family and that of his wife. He had taken a small place in 
liis father's county, but the wife for whose comfort he had taken it had 
'lied before she was permitted to see it. Nevertheless he had gone to 
leside there, hunting a good deal and farming a little, making himself 
popular in the district, and keeping up the good name of Grantly in a 
Buccessful way, till — alas, — it had seemed good to him to throw those 


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favouring eyes on poor Grace Crawley. His wife had now been dead 
just two years, and as he was stUl under thirty, no one could deny it 
would be right that he should marry again. No one did deny it. His 
father had hinted that he ought to do so, and had generously whispered 
that if some little increase to the major's present income were needed, 
he might possibly be able to do something. "'What is the good of 
keeping it 1 " the archdeacon had said in liberal after-dinner warmth. 
" I only want it for your brother and yourself." The brother was a 

And the major's mother had strongly advised him to marry again 
without loss of time. " My dear Henry," she had said, " you'll never 
be younger, and youth does go for something. As for dear little Edith, 
being a girl, she is almost no impediment. Do you know those two 
girls at Chaldicotes 1 " 

** What, Mrs. Thome's nieces 1 " 

"No ; they are not her nieces but her cousins. Emily Dunstable is 
very handsome ; — and as for money 1 " 

" But what about birth, mother 1 " 

" One can't have everything, my dear.'* 

"i\s far as I am concerned, I should like to have everything or 
l^Lpthing," the major had said laughing. Now for him to think of 
Grace Crawley after that, — of Grace Crawley who had no money, and 
no particular birth, and not even beauty itself, — ^so at least Mrs. 
Grantly said, — who had not even enjoyed the ordinary education of a 
lady, was too bad. Nothing had been wanting to Emily Dunstable's 
education, and it was calculated that she would have at least twenty 
thousand pounds on the day of her marriage. 

The disappointment to the mother would be the more sore because 
she had gone to work upon her little scheme with reference to Miss 
Emily Dunstable, and had at first, as she thought, seen her way to 
succesj, — to success in spite of the disparaging words which her son 
had spoken to her. Mrs. Thome's house at Chaldicotes, — or Dr. 
Thome's house as it should, perhaps, be more properly called, for Dr. 
Thome was the husband of Mrs. Thome, — was in these days the 
pleasantest house in Barsetshire. No one saw so much company as the 
Thomes, or spent so much money in so pleasant a way. The great 
county families, the Pallisers and the De Courcys, the Luftons and the 
Greshams, were no doubt grander, and some of them were perhaps 

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riclier than tlie Chaldicote Thomes, — as they were called to distinguish 

them from the Thomes of Ullathorne ; hut none of these people were 

80 pleasant in their ways, so free in their hospitality, or so easy in their 

modes of living, as the doctor and his wife. When first Chaldicotes, a 

very old countsy-seat, had hy the chances of war fallen into their hands 

and been newly furnished, and newly decorated, and newly gardened, 

and newly greenhoused and hot-watered hy them, many of the county 

people had turned up their noses at them. Dear old Lady Lufton had 

done so, and had been greatly grieved, — ^saying nothing, however, of 

her grief, — ^when her son and daughter-in-law had broken away from her, 

and submitted themselves to the blandishments of the doctor's wife. 

And the Grantlys Jiad stood aloof, partly influenced, no doubt, by their 

dear and intimate old friend Miss Monica Thome of Ullathorne, a lady 

of the very old school, who, though good as gold and kind as charity, 

could not endure that an interloping Mrs. Thorne, who never had a 

grandfather, should come to honour and glory in the county, simply 

because of her riches. Miss Monica Thorne stood out, but Mrs. Grantly 

gave way, and having once given way found that Dr. Thome, and 

Mrs. Thome, and Emily Dunstable, and Chaldicote House together, 

were very charming. And the major had been once there with her, 

and had made himself very pleasant, and there had certainly been some 

little passage of incipient love between him and Miss Emily Dunstable, 

as to which Mrs. Thome, who managed everything, seemed to be well 

pleased. This had been after the first mention made by Mrs. Grantly 

to her son of Emily Dunstable's name, but before she had heard any 

faintest whispers of his fancy for Grace Crawley ; and she had therefore 

heen justified in hoping, — almost in expecting, that Emily Dunstable 

would be her daughter-in-law, and was therefore the more aggrieved 

when this terrible Crawley peril first opened itself before her eyes. 

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The dinner-party at the rectory comprised none but the Grantly 
family. The marchioness had written to say that she preferred to 
have it so. The father had suggested that the Thomes of TJllathome, 
very old friends, might he asked, and the Greshams from Boxall Hill, 
and had even promised to endeavour to get old Lady Lufton over to 
the rectory, Lady Lufton having in former years been Griselda*s warm 
friend. But Lady Hartletop had preferred to see her dear father and 
mother in privacy. Hei brother Henry she would be glad to meet, and 
hoped to make some arrangement with him for a short visit to Hartle- 
bury, her husband's place in Shropshire, — as to which latter hint, it 
may, however, be at once said, that nothing further was spoken after 
the Crawley alliance had been suggested. And there had been a very 
sore point mooted by the daughter in a request made by her to her 
father that she might not be called upon to meet her grandfather, her 
mother's father, Mr. Harding, a clergyman of Barchester, who was now 
stricken in years. — " Papa would not have come," said Mrs. Grantly, 
" but I think, — I do think " Then she stopped herself. 

" Your father has odd ways sometimes, my dear. You know how 
fond I am of having him here myself." 

"It does not signify," said Mrs. Grantly. "Do not let us say 
anything more about it. Of course we cannot have everything. I am. 
told the child does her duty in her sphere of life, and I suppose we 
ought to be contented." Then Mrs. Grantly went up to her own room, 
and there she cried. Nothing was said to the major on the unpleasant 
subject of the Crawleys before dinner. He met his sister in the draw- 
ing-room, and was allowed to kiss her noble cheek. " I hope Edith is 
well, Henry," said the sister. " Quite well ; and little Dumbello is the 
same, I hopel" "Thank you, yes; quite well" Then there seemed 

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to be nothing more' to be said between the two. The major never 
made inquiries after the august family, or would allow it to appear that 
he was conscious of being shone upon by the wife of a marquis. Any 
adulation which Griselda received of that kind came from her father, 
and, therefore, unconsciously she had learned to think that her father 
was better bred than the other members of her family, and more fitted 
by nature to move in that sacred circle to which she herself had been 
exalted. "We need not dwell upon the dinner, which was but a dull 
a&ir. Mrs. Grantly strove to carry on the family party exactly as it 
would have been carried on Imd her daughter married the son of some 
neighbouring squire; but she herself was conscious of the struggle, and 
the fact of there being a struggle produced failure. The rector's 
servants treated the daughter of the house with special awe, and the 
mcux^hioness herself moved, and spoke, and ate, and drank with a cold 
magnificence, which I think had become a second nature with her, but 
which was not on that account the less oppressive. Even the arch- 
deacon, who enjoyed something in that which was so disagreeable to 
his wife, felt a relief when he was left alone after dinner with his son. 
He felt relieved as his son got up to open the door for his mother and 
sister, but was aware at the same time that he had before him a most 
difficult and possibly a most disastrous task. His dear son Henry was 
not a man to be talked smoothly out of, or into, any propriety. He 
had a will of his own, and having hitherto been a successful man, who 
in youth had fallen into few youthful troubles, — who had never justified 
his father in using stern parental authority,— ^was not now inclined to 
bend his neck. " Henry," said the archdeacon, " what are you drink- 
ing? That's '34 port, but it's not just what it should be. Shall I send 
for another bottle % " 

" It will do for me, sir. I shall only take a glass." 

"I shall drink two or three glasses of claret. But you young 
fellows have become so desperately temperate." 

"We take our wine at dinner, sir." 

" By-the-by, how well Griselda is looking." 

" Yes, she is. It's always easy for women to look well when they're 

rich." How would Grace Crawley look, then, who was poor as poverty 

itself, and who should remain poor, if his son was fool enough to 

marry her? That was the train of thought which ran through the 

• archdeacon's mind. " I do not think much of riches," said he, " but it 

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is always well that a gentleman's wife or a gentleman's daughter 
should have a sufficiency to maintain her position in life." 

^'You may say the same, sir, of everybody's wife and everybody's 

" You know what I mean, Henry." 

" I am not quite sure that I do, sir." 

" Perhaps I had better speak out at once. A rumour has reached 
your mother and me, which we don't believe for a moment, but which, 
nevertheless, makes us unhappy even as a report. They say that there 
is a young woman Uving in Silverbridge to whom you are becoming- 

" Is there any reason why I should not become attached to a young 
woman in Silverbridge? — though I hope any young woman to whom 
I may become attached will be worthy at any rate of being called a 
young lady." 

" I hope so, Henry ; I hope so. I do hope so." 

" So much I will promise, sir ; but I will promise nothing more." 

The archdeacon looked across into his son's face, and his heart sank 
w^ithin him. His son's voice and his son's eyes seemed to tell him two 
things. They seemed to tell him, firstly, that the rumour about Grace 
Crawley was true ; and, secondly, that the major was resolved not to he 
talked out of his folly. "But you are not engaged to any one, are 
you?" said the archdeacon. The son did not at first make any answer, 
and then the father repeated the question. " Considering our mutual 
positions, Henry, I think you ought to tell me if you are engaged." 

"I am not engaged. Had I become so, I should have taken the 
first opportunity of telling either you or my mother." 

"Thank God. Now, my dear boy, I can speak out more plainly. 
The young woman whose name I have heard is daughter to that 
Mr. Crawley who is perpetual curate at Hogglestock. I knew that there 
could be nothing in it." 

" But there is something in it, sir." 

" What is there in it 1 Do not keep me in suspense, Henry. What 
is it you mean 1 " 

"It is rather. hard to be cross-questioned in this way on such a 
subject. When you express yourself as thankful that there is nothing 
in the rumour, I am forced to stop you, as otherwise it is possible that 
hereafter you may say that I have deceived you." 

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" But you don't mean to marry her 1 " 

" I certainly do not mean to pledge myself not to do so." 

" Do you mean to tell me, Henry, that you are in love with Miss 
Crawley 1 " Then there was another pause, during which the archdeacon 
sat looking for an Aswer ; hut the major said never a word. " Am I to 
suppose that you intend to lower yourself by marrying a young woman 
who cannot possibly have enjoyed any of the advantages of a lady's 
education ] I say nothing of the imprudence of the thing ; nothing of 
her own want of fortune ; nothing of your having to maintain a whole 
family steeped in poverty ; nothing of the debts and character of the 
father, upon whom, as I imderstand, at this moment there rests a very 
grave suspicion of — of — of — what' I'm afraid I must call downright 

" Downright theft, certainly, — if he were guilty." 

"1 say nothing of all that; hut looking at the young woman, 
herself " 

" She is simply the best educated girl whom it has ever been my lot 
to meet." 

"Henry, I have a right to expect that you will be honest with 

" I am honest with you." 

" Do you mean to ask this girl to marry you 1 " 

" I do not think that you have any right to ask me that question, 

"I have a right at any rate to teU you this, that if you so far 
disgrace yourself and me, I shall consider myself bound to withdraw 
from you all the sanction which would be conveyed by my — my — 
my continued assistance." 

"Do you intend me to understand that you will stop my income?", 

" Certainly I should." 

"Then, sir, I think you would behave to me most cruelly. You 
advised me to give up my profession." 

"Not in order that you might marry Grace Crawley." 

" I claim the privilege of a man of my age to do as I please in such 
a matter as marriage. Miss Crawley is a lady. Her father is a clergy- 
man, as is mine. Her father's oldest friend is my uncle. There is 
nothing on earth against her except her poverty. I do not think I ever 
heard of such cruelty on a father's part." 

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" Very well, Henry." 

" I have endeavoured to do my duty by you, sir, always ; and by 
my mother. You can treat me in this way, if you please, but it will 
not have any effect on my conduct. You can stop my allowance 
to-morrow, if you like it. I had not as yet m^e up my mind to 
make an offer to Miss Crawley, but I shall now do so to-morrow 

This was very bad indeed, and the archdeacon was extremely 
unhappy. He was by no means at heart a cruel man. He loved his 
children dearly. If this disagreeable marriage were to take place, he 
would doubtless do exactly as his wife had predicted. He would not 
stop his son's income for a single quarter ; and, though he went on 
telling himself that he would stop it, he knew in his own heart that 
any such severity was beyond his power. He was a generous man in 
money matters, — ^having a dislike for poverty which was not generous, 
— and for his own sake could not have endured to see a son of his in 
want. But he was terribly anxious to exercise the power which the 
use of the threat might give him. " Henry," he said, " you are treating 
me badly, very badly. My anxiety has always been for the welfare of 
my children. Do. you think that Miss Crawley would be a fitting 
sister-in-law for that dear girl upstairs ? " 

" Certainly I do, or for any other dear girl in the world ; — excepting 
that Griselda, who is not clever, would hardly be able to appreciate 
Miss Crawley, who is clever.*' 

" Griselda not clever ! Good heavens 1 " Then there was another 
pause, and as the major said nothing, the father continued his entreaties. 
" Pray, pray think of what my wishes are, and your mother's. You 
are not committed as yet. Pray think of us while there is time. I 
would rather double your income if I saw you marry any one that we 
could name here." 

" I have enough as it is, if I may only be allowed to know that it 
will not be capriciously withdrawn." The archdeacon filled his glass 
tmconsciously, and sipped his wine, while he thought what further he 
might say. Perhaps it might be better that he should say nothing 
further at the present moment. The major, however, was indiscreet, 
and pushed the question. " May I understand, sir, that your threat is 
withdrawn, and that my income is secure ] " 

" What, if you marry this girl ? " 

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"Yes, sir; will my income be continued to me if I marry Miss 
Crawley 1" 

" Ko ; it will not." Then tlie father got up hastily, pushed the 
decanter back angrily from his hand, and without saying another word 
walked away into the drawing-room. That evening at the rectory was 
very gloomy. The archdeacon now and again said a word or two to 
bis daughter, and his daughter answered him in monosyllables. The 
major sat apart moodily, and spoke to no one. Mrs. Grantly, under- 
standing well what had passed, knew that nothing could be done at 
the present moment to restore family comfort ; so she sat by the fire 
and knitted. Exactly at ten they all went to bed. 

"Dear Henry," said the mother to her son the next morning; 
" think much of yourself, and of your child, and of us, before you take 
any great step in life." 

"I will, mother," said he. Then he went out and put on his 
wrapper, and got into his dog-cart, and drove himself oiF to Silverbridge. 
He had not spoken to his father since they were in the dining-room on 
the previous evening. When he started, the marchioness had not yet 
come downstairs; but at eleven she breakfasted, and at twelve she 
also was taken away. Poor Mrs. Grantly had not had much comfort 
from her children's visits. 



Mrs. Cbawlbt had walked from Hogglestock to Silverbridge on the 
occasion of her visit to Mr. Walker, the attorney, and had been kindly 
sent back by that gentleman in his wife's little open carriage. The 
tidings she brought home with her to her husband were very grievous. 
The magistrates would sit on the next Thursday, — ^it was then Friday, 
— ^and Mr. Crawley had better appear before them to answer the charge 

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made by Mr. Soames. He would be served with a summons, which 
he could obey of his own accord. There had been many points very 
closely discussed between Walker and Mrs. Crawley, as to which there 
had been great difl&culty in the choice of words which should be tender 
enough in regard to the feelings of the poor lady, and yet strong 
enough to convey to her the very facts as they stood. Would Mr. 
Crawley come, or must a policeman be sent to fetch him? The 
magistrates had already issued a warrant for his apprehension. Such 
in truth was the fact, but they had agreed with Mr, Walker, that as 
there was no reasonable ground for anticipating any attempt at escape 
on the part of the reverend gentleman, the lawyer might use v^hat 
gentle means he could for ensuring the clergyman's attendance. Could 
Mrs. Crawley undertake to say that he would appear? Mrs. Crawley 
did undertake either that her husband should appear on the Thursday, 
or else that she would send over in the early part of the week and 
declare her inability to ensure his appearance. In that case it was 
understood the policeman must come. Then Mr. Walker had sug- 
gested that Mr. Crawley had better employ a lawyer. Upon this Mrs. 
Crawley had looked beseechingly up into Mr. Walker's face, and had 
asked him to undertake the duty. He was of course obliged to explain 
that he was already employed on the other side. Mr. Soames had 
secured his services, and though he was willing to do all in his power 
to mitigate the sufiferings of the family, he could not abandon the duty 
he had undertaken. He named another attorney, however, and then 
sent the poor woman home in his wife's carriage. " I fear that unfor- 
tunate man is guilty. I fear he is," Mr. Walker had said to his wife 
within ten minutes of the departure of the visitor. 

Mrs. Crawley would not allow herself to be driven up to the garden 
gate before her own house, but had left the carriage some three hun- 
dred yards off, down the road, and from thence she walked home. It 
was now quite dark. It was nearly six in the evening on a wet 
December night, and although cloaks and shawls had been supplied to 
her, she was wet and cold when she reached her home. But at such 
a moment, anxious as she was to prevent the additional evil which 
, would come to thenl all from illness to herself, she could not pass 
through to her room till she had spoken to her husband. He was sit- 
ting in the one sitting-room on the left side of the passage as the 
house was entered, and with him was their daughter Jane, a girl now 

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nearly sixteen years of age. There was no light in the room, and 
hardly more than a spark of fire showed itself in the grate. The 
father was sitting on one side of the hearth, in an old arm-chair, and 
there he had sat for the last hour without speaking. His daughter 
had been in and out of the room, and had endeavoured to gain his 
attention now and again by a word, but he had never answered her, 
and had not even noticed her presence. At the moment when Mrs. 
Crawley's step was heard upon the gravel which led to the door, Jane 
was kneeUng before the fire with a hand upon her father's arm. She 
had tried to get her hand into his, but he had either been unaware of 
the attempt, or had rejected it. 

" Here is mamma, at last," said Jane, rising to her feet as her 
mother entered the house. 

" Are you all in the dark 1 " said Mrs. Crawley, striving to speak in 
a voice that should not be sorrowful. 

" Yes, mamma ; we are in the dark. Papa is here. Oh, mamma, 
how wet you are ! " 

" Yes, dear. It is raining. Get a light out of the kitchen, Jane,, 
and I will go upstairs in two minutes." Then, when Jane was gone, 
the wife made her way in the dark over to her husband's side, and 
spoke a word to him. " Josiah," she said, " will you not speak to 

" What should I speak about 1 Where have you been ? " 

" I have been to Silverbridge. I have been to Mr. Walker. He, 
at any rate, is very kind." 

** I do not want his kindness. I want no man's kindness. Mr. 
Walker is the attorney, I believe. Kind, indeed I " 

" I mean considerate. Josiah, let us do the best we can in this 
trouble. We have had others as heavy before." 

" But none to crush me as this will crush me. Well ; what am I 
to do] Am I to go to prison — ^to-night?" At this moment his 
daughter returned with a candle, and the mother could not make her 
answer at oncft. It was a wretched, poverty-stricken room. By 
degrees the carpet had disappeared, which had been laid down some 
nine or ten years sincb, when they had first come to Hogglestock, and 
which even then had net been new. Now nothing but a poor frag- 
ment of it remained in t'ont of the fire-place. In the middle of thij 
room there was a tablf which had once been large ; but one flap of it 

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was gone altogether, and the other flap sloped grievously towards the 
floor, the weakness of old age having fallen into its legs. There were 
two or three smaller tables about, but they stood propped against 
walls, thence obtaining a security which their own strength would not 
give them. At the further end of the room there was an ancient piece 
of furniture, which was always called " papa's secretary," at which 
Mr. Crawley customarily sat and wrote his sermons, and did all work 
that was done by him within his house. The man who had made it, 
some time in the last century, had intended it to be a locked guardian 
for domestic documents, and the receptacle for all that was most 
private in the house of some paterfamilias. But beneath the hands of 
Mr. Crawley it always stood open ; and with the exception of the 
small space at which he wrote, was covered with dog's-eared 
books, from nearly all of which the covers had disappeared. There 
were there two odd volumes of Euripides, a Greek Testament, an 
Odyssey, a duodecimo Pindar, and a miniature Anacreon. There was 
half a Horace, — ^the two first books of the Odes at the beginning, and 
the De Arte Poetica at the end having disappeared. There was a 
little bit of a volume of Cicero, and there were Caesar's Commentaries, 
in two volumes, so stoutly bound that they had defied the combined 
ill-usage of time and the Crawley fanuly. All these were piled upon 
the secretary, with many others, — odd volumes of sermons and the 
like ; but the Greek and Latin lay at the top, and showed signs of 
most frequent use. There was one arm-chair in the room, — a Windsor- 
chair, as such used to be called, made soft by an old cushion in the 
back, in which Mr. Crawley sat when both he and his wife were in 
the room, and Mrs. Crawley when he was absent And there was an 
old horsehair sofa, — ^now almost denuded of its horsehair, — but that, 
like the tables, required the assistance of a friendly walL Then there 
was half-a-dozen of other chairs, — all of different sorts, — and they 
completed the fundture of the room. It was not such a room as one 
would wish to see inhabited by a beneficed clergyman of the Church 
of England ; but they who know what money will d^ and what it will 
not, will understand how easily a man with a famj^, and with a hun- 
dred and thirty pounds a year, may be brought V the need of inhabit- 
ing such a chamber. When it is rememberecj that three pouncis of 
meat a day, at ninepence a pound, will cost c^ forty p()unds a year, 
there need be no difficulty in understanding thw^^niay be so. Bread 

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for such a family must cost at least twenty-five pounds. Clothes for 
five persons, of whom one must at any rate wear the raiment of a 
gentleman, can hardly he found for less than ten pounds a year a head. 
Then there remains fifteen pounds for tea, sugar, heer, wages, educa- 
tion, amusements, and the like. In such circumstances a gentleman 
can hardly pay much for the renewal of his furniture ! 

Mrs. Crawley could not answer her hushand's question before her 
daughter, and was therefore obliged to make another excuse for again 
sending her out of the room. "Jane, dear," she said, ** bring my 
things down to the kitchen and I will change them by the fire. I will 
be there in two minutes, when I have had a word with your papa." 
The girl went immediately and then Mrs. Crawley answered her hus- 
band's question. " No, my dear ; there is no question of your going 
to prison." 

"But there will be.*' 

" I have undertaken that you shall attend before the magistrates at 
Silverbridge on Thursday next, at twelve o'clock. You will do 

" Do it ! You mean, I suppose, to say that I must go there. Is 
anybody to come and fetch me % " 

"Nobody will come. Only you must promise that you will be 
there. I have promised for you. You will go ; will you not 1 " She 
stood leaning over him, half embracing him, waiting for an answer ; 
but for a while he gave none. " You will tell me that you will do 
what I have undertaken for you, Josiah 1 " 

" I think 1 would rather that they fetched me. I think that I will 
not go myself." 

" And have policemen come for you into the parish ! Mr. Walker 
has promised that he will send oyer his phaeton. He sent me home in 
it to^lay." 

" I want nobody's phaeton. If I go I will walk. If it were ten 
times the distance, and though I had not a shoe left to my feet I would 
walk. If I go there at all, of my own accord, I will walk there." 

" But you will go 1" 

"What do I care for the parish 1 What matters it who sees me 
now? I cannot be degraded worse than I am. Everybody knows it." 

" There is no disgrace without guilt," said his wife. 

*' Everybody thinks me guilty. I see it in their eyes. The children 

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know of it, and I hear their whispers in the school, ' Mr. Crawley has 
taken some money/ I heard the girl say it myself." 

" What matters what the girl says 1 " 

" And yet you would have me go in a fine carriage to Silverbridge, 
as though to a wedding. If I am wanted there let them take me as 
they would another. I shall be here for them, — unless 1 am dead." 

At this moment Jane reappeared, pressing her mother to take off 
her wet clothes, and Mrs. Crawley went with hfer daughter to the 
kitchen. The one red-armed young girl who was their only servant 
was sent away, and then the mother and child discussed how best they 
might prevail with the head of the family. "But, mamma, it must 
come right ; must it not ] " 

" I trust it will. I think it wilL But I cannot see my way as yet." 

" Papa cannot have done anything wrong." 

"No, my dear; he has done nothing wrong. He has made great 
mistakes, and it is hard to make people understand that he has not 
intentionally spoken untruths. He is ever thinking of other things, 
about the school, and his sermons, and he does not remember." 

" And about how poor we are, mamma." 

" He has much to occupy his mind, and he forgets things which 
dwell in the memory with other people. He said that he had got this 
money from Mr. Soames, and of course he thought that it was so." 

" And where did he get it, mamma 1 " 

" Ah, — I wish I knew. I should have said that I had seen every 
shilling that came into the house ; but I know nothing of this cheque, 
— ^whence it came." 

" But will not papa tell youl " 

"He would tell me if he knew. He thinks it came from the dean." 

" And are you sure it did not 1 " 

"Yes; quite sure; as sure as I can be of anything. The dean 
told me he would give him fifty pounds, and the fifty pounds came. I 
had them in my own hands. And he has written to say that it was so." 

" But couldn't this be part of the fifty pounds % " 

" No, dear, no." 

" Then where did papa get it ] Perhaps he picked it up, and has 

To this Mrs. Crawley made no reply. The idea that the cheque 
had been found by her husband, — ^had been picked up as Jane had said. 

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— ^had occurred also to Jane's mother, Mr. Soames was confident that 
he had dropped the pocket-book at the parsonage. Mrs. Crawley had 
always disliked Mr. Soames, thinking him to be hard, cruel, and vulgar. 
She would not have hesitated to believe him guilty of a falsehood, or 
even of direct dishonesty, if by so believing she could in her own mind 
have found the means of reconciling her husband's possession of the 
cheque with absolute truth on his part. But she could not do so. 
Even though Soames had, with devilish premeditated malice, slipped 
the cheque into her husband's pocket, his having done so would not 
account for her husband's having used the cheque when he found it 
there. She was driven to make excuses for him which, valid as they 
might be with herself, could not be valid with others. He had said 
that Mr. Soames had paid the cheque to him. That was clearly a 
mistake. He had said that the cheque had been given to him by the 
dean. That was clearly another mistake. She knew, or thought she 
knew, that he, being such as he was, might make such blunders as 
these, and yet be true. She believed that such statements might be 
blunders and not falsehoods, — so convined was she that her husband's 
mind would not act at all times as do the minds of other men. But 
having such a conviction she was driven to believe also that almost 
anything might be possible. Soames may have been right, or he might 
have dropped, not the book, but the cheque. She had no difficulty 
in presuming Soames to be wrong in any detail, if by so supposing 
she could make the exculpation of her husband easier to herself. If 
villany on the part of Soames was needful to her theory, Soames 
would become to her a villain at once, — of the blackest dye. Might 
it not be possible that the cheque having thus fallen into her husband's 
hands, he had come, after a while, to think that it had been sent to 
him by his friend, the dean ] And if it were so, would it be possible 
to make others so believe 1 That there was some mistake which would 
be easily explained were her husband's mind lucid at all points, but 
which she could not explain because of the darkness of his mind, she 
was thoroughly convinced. But were she herself to put forward such 
a defence on her husband's part, she would, in doing so, be driven to say 
that he was a lunatic, — that he was incapable of managing the aflPairs 
of himself or his family. It seemed to her that she would be compelled 
to have him proved to be either a thief or a madman. And yet she 
knew that he was neither. That he was not a thief was as clear to her 


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as the sun at noonday. Could she have lain on the man's hosom for 
twenty years, and not yet have learned the secrets of the heart beneath ? 
The whole mind of the man was, as she told herself, within her grasp. 
He might have taken the twenty pounds ; he might have taken it and 
spent it, though it was not his own ; but yet he was no thief. Nor 
was he a madman. No man more sane in preaching the gospel of his 
Lord, in making intelligible to the ignorant the promises of his Saviour, 
ever got into a parish pulpit, or taught in a parish school. The intellect 
of the man was as clear as running water in all things not appertaining 
to his daily life and its difficulties. He could be logical with a venge- 
ance, — so logical as to cause infinite trouble to his wife, who, with all 
her good sense, was not logical And he had Greek at his fingers' 
ends, — as his daughter knew very well. And even to this day he would 
sometimes recite to them English poetry, lines after lines, stanzas upon 
stanzas, in a sweet low melancholy voice, on long winter evenings when 
occasionally the burden of his troubles would be lighter to him than 
was usual. Books in Latin and in French he read with as much ease 
as in English, and took delight in such as came to him, when he would 
condescend to accept such^oans from the deanery. And there was at 
times a lightness of heart about the man. In the course of the last 
winter he had translated into Greek irregular verse the very noble 
ballad of Lord Bateman, maintaining the rhythm and the rhyme, and 
had repeated it with uncouth glee till his daughter knew it all by heart 
And when there had come to him a five-pound note from some admir- 
ing magazine editor as the price of the same, — still through the dean's 
hands, — he had brightened up his heart, and had thought for an hour 
or two that even yet the world would smile upon him. His wife knew 
well that he was not mad ; but yet she knew that there were dark 
moments with him, in which his mind was so much astray that he 
could not justly be called to account as to what he might remember 
and what he might forget. How would it be possible to explain all 
this to a judge and jury, so that they might neither say that he was 
dishonest, nor yet that he was mad 1 " Perhaps he picked it up, and 
had forgotten," her daughter said to her. Perhaps it was so, but she 
might not as yet admit as much even to her child. 

"It is a mystery, dear, as yet, which, with God's aid, will be 
unravelled. Of one thing we at least may be sure ; that your papa has 
not wilfully done anything wrong." 

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" Of course we are sure of that, mamma." 

Mrs. Crawley had many troubles during the next four or five days, 
of which the worst, perhaps, had reference to the services of the Sunday 
which intervened between the day of her visit to Silverbridge, and the 
sitting of the magistrates. On the Saturday it was necessary that he 
should prepare his sermons, of which he preached two on every Sunday, 
though his congregation consisted only of farmers, brickmakers, and 
agricultural labourers who would willingly have dispensed with the 
second. !Mrs. Crawley proposed to send over to Mr. Robarts, a 
neighbouring clergyman, for the loan of a curate. Mr. Robarts was 
a warm friend to the Crawleys, and in such an emergency would 
probably have come himself ; but Mr. Crawley would not hear of it. 
The discussion took place early on the Saturday morning, before it was 
as yet daylight, for the poor woman was thinking day and night of her 
husband's troubles, and it had this good effect, that immediately after 
breakfast he seated himself at his desk, and worked at his task as 
though he had forgotten all else in the world. 

And on the Sunday morning he went into his school before the 
hour of the church service, as had been his wont, and taught there as 
though everything with him was as usual Some of the children were 
absent, having heard of their teacher's tribulation, and having been told 
probably that he would remit his work ; and for these absent ones he 
sent in great anger. The poor bairns came creeping in, for he was a 
man who by his manners had been able to secure their obedience in 
*pite of his poverty. And he preached to the people of his parish on 
that Sunday, as he had always preached; eagerly, clearly, with an 
eloquence fitted for the hearts of such an audience. No one would 
have guessed from his tones and gestures and appearance on that 
occasion, that there was aught wrong with him, — unless there had 
been there some observer keen enough to perceive that the greater care 
which he used, and the special eagerness of his words, denoted a special 
frame of mind. 

After that, after those church services were over, he sank again, and 
never roused himself till the dreaded day had come. 


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Opinion in Silverbridge, at Barchester, and throughout the county, was 
very much divided as to the guilt or innocence of Mr. Crawley. Up 
to the time of Mrs. Crawley's visit to Silverbridge, the aflPair-'had not 
been much discussed. To give Mr. Soames his due, he had been by 
no means anxious to press the matter against the clergyman ; but he 
had been forced to go on with it. While the first cheque was missing 
Lord Lufton had sent him a second cheque for the money, and the loss 
had thus fallen upon his lordship. The cheque had of course been 
traced, and inquiry had of course been made as to Mr. Crawley's pos- 
session of it. When that gentleman declared that he had received it 
from Mr. Soames, Mr. Soames had been forced to contradict and to 
resent such an assertion. When Mr. Crawley had afterwards said that 
the money had come to him from the dean, and when the dean had^ 
shown that this also was untrue, Mr. Soames, c(5nfident as he was that 
he had dropped the pocket-book at Mr. Crawley's house, could not but 
continue the investigation. He had done so with as much silence as 
the nature of the work admitted. But by the day of the magistrates' 
meeting at Silverbridge the subject had become common through the 
county, and men's minds were very much divided. 

All Hogglestock believed their parson to be innocent ; but then all 
Hogglestock believed him to be mad. At Silverbridge the tradesmen 
with whom he had dealt, and to whom he had owed and still owed, 
money, all declared him to be innocent. They knew something of the 
man personally, and could not believe him to be a thief. All the ladies 
in Silverbridge, too, were sure of his innocence. It was to them im- 
possible that such a man should have stolen twenty pounds. " My 
dear," said the eldest Miss Prettyman to poor Grace Crawley, **in 
England, where the laws are good, no gentleman is ever made out to be 

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guilty when he is innocent ; and your papa, of course, is innocent. 
Therefore you should not trouble yourself." "It will break papa's 
heart," Grace had said, and she did trouble herself. But the gentlemen in 
Silverbridge were made of sterner stuff, and believed the man to be guilty, 
clergjrmen and gentleman though he was. Mr. Walker, who among 
the hghts in Silverbridge was the leading light, would not speak a word 
upon the subject to anybody ; and then everybody, who was anybody, 
knew that Mr. Walker was convinced of the man's guilt. Had 
Mr. Walker believed him to be innocent, his tongue would have been 
ready enough. John Walker, who was in the habit of laughing at his 
father's good nature, had no doubt upon the subject. Mr. Winthrop, 
Mr. Walker's partner, shook his head. People did not think much of 
Mr. Winthrop, excepting certain unmarried ladies ; for Mr. Winthrop 
was a bachelor, and had plenty of money. People did not think much 
of Mr. Winthrop ; but still on this subject he might know something, 
and when he shook his head he manifestly intended to indicate guilt. 
And Dr. Tempest, the rector of Silverbridge, did not hesitate to declare 
his belief in the guilt of the incumbent of Hogglestock. No man 
reverences a clergyman, as a clergyman, so slightly as a brother clergy- 
man. To Dr. Tempest it appeared to be neither very strange nor very 
terrible that Mr. Crawley should have stolen twenty pounds. " What 
is a man to do," he said, '* when he sees his children starving ? He 
should not have married on such a preferment as that." Mr. Crawley 
had married, however, long before he got the living of Hogglestock. 

There were two Lady Luftons, — mother-in-law and daughter-in-law, 
— ^who at this time were living together at Framley Hall, Lord Lufton's 
seat in the county of Barset, and they were both thoroughly convinced 
of Mr. Crawley's innocence. The elder lady had lived much among 
clergymen, and could hardly, I think, by any means have been brought 
to believe in the guilt of any man who had taken upon himself the 
orders of the Church of England. She had also known Mr. Crawley 
personally for some years, and was one of those who could not admit 
to herself that any one was vile who had been near to herself. She 
believed intensely in the wickedness of the outside world, of the world 
which was far away from herself, and of which she never saw anything ; 
but they who were near to her, and who had even become dear to her, or 
who even had been respected by her, were made, as it were, saints in her 
imagination. They were brought into the inner circle, and could hardly 

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be expelled. She was an old woman who thought all evil of those she 
did not know, and all good of those whom she did know ; and as she 
did know Mr. Crawley, she was quite sure he had not stolen Mr. Soames's 
twenty pounds. She- did know Mr. Soames also ; and thus there was 
a mystery for the unravelling of which she was very anxious. And the 
young Lady Lufton was equally sure, and perhaps with better reason 
for such certainty. She had, in truth, known more of Mr. Crawley 
personally, than had any one in the county, unless it was the dean. The 
younger Lady Lufton, the present Lord Lufton's wife, had sojourned at 
one time in Mr. Crawley's house, amidst the Crawley poverty, living as 
they lived, and nursing Mrs. Crawley through an illness which had well 
nigh been fatal to her; and the younger Lady Lufton believed in 
Mr. Crawley; — as Mr. Crawley also believed in her. 

**It is quite impossible, my dear," the old woman said to her 

" Quite impossible, my lady." The dowager was always called " my 
lady," both by her own daughter and by her son's wife except in the 
presence of their children, when she was addressed as "grand- 
mamma." " Think how well I knew him. It's no use talking of 
evidence. No evidence would make me believe it." 

" Nor me ; and I think it a great shame that such a report should 
be spread about. 

" I suppose ]\Ir. Soames could not help himself? " said the younger 
lady, who was not herself very fond of Mr. Soamejs. 

" Ludovic says that he has only done what he was obliged to do." 
The Ludovic spoken of was Lord Lufton. 

This took place in the morning ; but in the evening the affair was 
again discussed at Framley Hall. Indeed, for some days, there was 
hardly any other subject held to be worthy of discussion in the county. 
Mr. Eobarts, the clergyman of the parish and the brother of the 
younger Lady Lufton, was dining at the hall with his wife, and 
the three ladies had together expressed their perfect conviction of the 
falseness of the accusation. But when Lord Lufton and Mr. Eobarts 
were together after the ladies had left them there was much less of 
this certainty expressed. " By Jove," said Lord Lufton, " I don't 
know what to think of it. I wish with all ray heart that Soames 
had said nothing about it, and that the cheque had passed without 
remark." ' 

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** That was impossible. When the banker sent to Soames, he was 
obliged to take the matter up." 

" Of course he was. But I'm sorry that it was so. For the life of 
me I can't conceive how the cheque got into Crawley's hands." 

" I imagine that it had been lying in the house, and that Crawley 
had come to think that it was his own." 

" But, my dear Mark," said Lord Luf ton, " excuse me if I say that 
that's nonsense. What do we do when a poor man has come to 4ihink 
that another man's property is his own 1 We send him to prison for 
making the mistake." 

" I hope they won't send Crawley to prison." 

" I hope so too ; but what is a jury to do 1 " 

" You think it will go to a jury, then 1 " 

*' I do," said Lord Lufton. " I don't see how the magistrates can 
save themselves from committing him. It is one of those cases in 
wtich every one concerned would wish to drop it if it were only 
possible. But it is not possible. On the evidence, as one sees it at 
present, one is bound to say that it is a case for a jury." 

** I believe that he is mad," said the brother parson. 

** He always was, as far as I could learn," said the lord. " I never 
knew him, myself. You do, I think 1 " 

" Oh, yes. I know him." And the vicar of Framley became silent 
and thoughtful as the memory of a certain interview between himself 
and Mr. Crawley came back upon his mind. At that time the waters 
had nearly closed over his head, and Mr. Crawley had given him some 
help in his way. WTien the gentlemen had again found the ladies, 
they kept their own doubts to themselves ; for at Framley Hall, as at 
present tenanted, female voices and female influences predominated 
over those which came from the other sex. 

At Barchester, the cathedral city of the county in which the 
Crawleys lived, opinion was violently against Mr. Crawley. In the 
city Mrs. Proudie, the wife of the bishop, was the leader of opinion in 
general, and she was very strong in her belief of the man's guQt. She 
had known much of clergymen all her life, as it behoved a bishop's 
wife to do, and she had none of that mingled weakness and ignorance 
which taught so many ladies in Barsetshire to suppose that an ordained 
clergyman could not become a thief. She hatgd old Lady Lufton with 
all her heart, and old Lady Lufton hated her as warmly. Mrs. Proudie 

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would say frequently that Lady Luf ton was a conceited old idiot, and 
Lady Lufton would declare as frequently that Mrs. Proudie was a 
vulgar virago. It was known at the palace in Barchester that kindness 
had been shown to the Crawleys by the family at Framley Hall, and 
this alone would have been sufficient to make Mrs. Proudie believe that 
Mr. Crawley could have been guilty of any crime. And as Mrs. Proudie 
believed, so did the bishop believe. " It is a terrible disgrace to the 
diocese," said the bishop, shaking his head, and patting his apron as 
he sat by his study fire. 

" Fiddlestick ! " said Mrs. Proudie. 

" But, my dear, — a beneficed clergyman ! " 

" You must get rid of him ; that's all. You must be firm whether 
ho be acquitted or convicted." 

" But if he be acquitted, I cannot get rid of him, my dear." 

" Yes, you can, if you are firm. And you must be firm. Is it not 
true that he has been disgmcefully involved in debt ever since he has 
been there ; that you have been pestered by letters from unfortunate 
f,radesmen who cannot get their money from him 1 " 

" That is true, my dear, certainly." 

"And is that kind of thing to go onl He cannot come to the 
palace as all clergymen should do, because he has got no clothes to 
come in. I saw him once about the lanes, and I never set my eyes on 
such an object in my life ! I would not believe that the man was a 
clergyman till John told me. He is a disgrace to the diocese, and 
he must be got rid of. I feel sure of his guilt, and I hope he will be 
convicted. But if he escape conviction, you must sequestrate the living 
because of the debts. The income is enough to get an excellent 
curate. It would just do for Thumble." To all of which the bL«»hop 
made no further reply, but simply nodded his head and patted his 
apron. He knew that he could not do exactly what his wife required 
of him ; but if it should so turn out that poor Crawley was found to 
be guilty, then the matter would be comparatively easy. 

" It should be an example to us, that we should look to our own 
steps, my dear," said the bishop. 

"That's all very well," said Mrs. Proudie, "but it has become 
your duty, and mine too, to look to the steps of other people ; and 
that duty we must do." ^ 

" Of course, my dear ; of course." That was the tone in which 

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the question of Mr. Crawley's alleged guilt was discussed at the 

We have already heard what was said on the subject at the house 
of Archdeacon Grantly. As the days passed by, and as other tidings 
came in, confirmatory of those which had before reached him, the 
archdeacon felt himself unable not to believe in the man's guilt. And 
the fear which he entertained as to his son's intended marriage with 
Grace Crawley tended to increase the strength of his belief. Dr. 
Grantly had been a very successful man in the world, and on all ordinary 
occasions had been able to show that bold front with which success 
endows a man. But he still had his moments of weakness, and feared 
greatly lest anything of misfortune should touch him, and mar the 
comely roundness of his prosperity. He was very wealthy. The wife of 
his bosom had been to him all that a wife should be. His reputation in 
the clerical world stood very high. He had lived all his life on terms 
of equality with the best of the gentry around him. His only daughter 
had made a splendid marriage. His two sons had hitherto done well 
in the world, not only as regarded their happiness, but as to marriage 
also, and as to social standing. But how great would be the fall if his 
son should at last marry the daughter of a convicted thief ! How 
would the Proudies rejoice over him, — the Proudies who had been 
crushed to the ground by the success of the Hartletop alliance ; and 
how would the low-church curates who swarmed in Barsetshire, gather 
together and scream in delight over his dismay ! " But why should 
we say that he is guilty ] " said Mrs. Grantly. 

** It hardly matters as far as we are concerned, whether they find 
him guilty or not," said the archdeacon. " If Henry marries that girl 
my heart will be broken." 

But perhaps to no one except to the Crawleys themselves had the 
matter caused so much terrible anxiety as to the archdeacon's son. He 
had told his father that he had made no off'er of marriage to Grace 
Crawley, and he had told the truth. But there are perhaps few men 
who make such ofl'ers in direct terms without having already said and 
done that which makes such offers simply necessary as the final closing 
of an accepted bargain. It was so at any rate between Major Grantly 
and Miss Crawley, and Major Grantly acknowledged to himself that it 
was so. He acknowledged also to himself that as regarded Grace her, 
self he h$d no wish to get back from his implied intentions. I^othing 

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that either his father or mother might say would shake him in that. 
But could it be his duty to bind himself to the family of a convicted 
thief? Could it be right that he should disgrace his father and his 
mother and his sister and his one child by such a connection ? He 
had a man's heart, and the poverty of the Crawleys caused him no 
solicitude. But he shrank from the contamination of a prison. 



It has abeady been said that Grace Crawley was at this time living 
with the two Miss Prettymans, who kept a girls* school at Silverbridge. 
Two more benignant ladies than the Miss Prettymans never presided 
over such an establishment. The younger was fat, and fresh, and fair, 
and seemed to be always running over with the milk of human kind- 
ness. The other was very thin and very small, and somewhat afflicted 
with bad health ; — ^was weak, too, in the eyes, and subject to racking 
headaches, so that it was considered generally that she was unable to 
take much active part in the education of the pupils. But it was con- 
sidered as generally that she did all the thinking, that she knew more 
than any other woman in Barsetshire, and that all the Prettyman 
schemes for education emanated from her mind. It was said, too, by 
those who knew them best, that her sister's good-nature was as nothing 
to hers ; that she was the most charitable, the most loving, and the 
most conscientious of schoolmistresses. This was Miss Annabella 
Prettyman, the elder ; and perhaps it may be inferred that some portion 
of her great character for virtue may have been due to the fact that 
nobody ever saw her out of her own house. She could not even go to 
church because the open air brought on neuralgia. She was therefore 
perhaps taken to be magnificent, partly because she was unknown. 
Miss Anne Prettyman, the younger, went about frequently to tea- 

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parties, — ^would go, indeed, to any party to which slie might be invited , 
and was known to have a pleasant taste for pound-cake and sweet- 
meats. Being seen so much in the outer world, she became common, 
and her character did not stand so high as did that of her sister. 
Some people were ill-natured enough to say that she wanted to marry 
Mr. Winthrop ; but of what maiden lady that goes out into the world 
are not such stories told % And all such stories in Silverbridge were 
told with special reference to Mr. Winthrop. 

Miss Crawley, at present, lived with the Miss Pretty mans and 
assisted them in the schooL This arrangement had been going on for 
the last twelve months, since the time in which Grace would have left 
the school in the natural course of things. There had been no bargain 
made, and no intention that Grace should stay. She had been invited 
to fill the place of an absent superintendent, first for one month, then 
for another, and then for two more months ; and when the assistant 
eame back, the Miss Prettymans thought there were reasons why Grace 
should be asked to remain a little longer. But they took great care to 
let the fashionable world of Silverbridge know that Grace Crawley was 
a visitor with them, and not a teacher. " "We pay her no salary, or 
anything of that kind," said Miss Anne Prettyman ; a statemant, how- 
ever, which was by no means true, for during those four months the 
regular stipend had been paid to her ; and twice since then, Miss Anna- 
bella Prettyman, who managed all the money matters, had called Grace 
into her little room, and had made a little speech, and had put a httle 
bit of paper into her hand. " I know I ought not to take it," Grace 
had said to her friend Anne. " If I was not here, there would be no 
one in my place." " Nonsense, my dear," Anne Prettyman had said • 
** it is the greatest comfort to us in the world. And you should make 
yourself nice, you know, for his sake. All the gentlemen like it." 
Then Grace had been very angry and had sworn that she would give 
the money back again. Nevertheless, I think she did make herself as 
nice as she knew how to do. And from all this it may be seen that 
the Miss Prettymans had hitherto quite approved of Major Grantly's 

But when this terrible affair came on about the cheque which had 
been lost and found and traced to Mr. Crawley's hands, Miss Anne 
Prettyman said nothing further to Grace Crawley about Major Grantly. 
It was not that she thought that Mr. Crawley was guilty, but she knew 

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enough of the world to be aware that suspicion of such guilt might 
compel such a man as Major Grantly to change his mind. " If he had 
only popped,'* Anne said to her sister, " it would have been all right. 
He would never have gone back from his word." " My dear," said 
Annabella, " I wisTi you would not talk about popping. It is a terrible 
word." " I shouldn't, to any one except you," said Anne. 

There had come to Silverbridge some few months since, on a visit 
to Mrs. Walker, a young lady from Allington, in the neighbouring 
county, between whom and Grace Crawley there had grown up from 
circumstances a warm friendship. Grace had a cousin in London, — a 
clerk high up and well-to-do in a public office, a nephew of her 
mother's, — and this cousin was, and for years had been, violently smitten 
in love for this young lady. But the young lady's tale had been sad, 
and though she acknowledged feelings of most affectionate friendship 
for the cousin, she could not bring herself to acknowledge more. Grace 
Crawley had met the young lady at Silverbridge, and words had been 
spoken about the cousin ; and though the young lady from Allington 
was some years older than Grace, there had grown up to be a friend- 
ship, and, as is not uncommon between young ladies, there had been 
an agreement that they would correspond. The name of the lady was 
Miss Lily Dale, and the name of the well-to-do cousin in London was 
Mr. John Eames. 

At the present moment Miss Dale was at home with her mother at 
Allington, and Grace Crawley in her terrible sorrow wrote to her friend, 
pouring out her whole heart. As Grace's letter and Miss Dale's answer 
will assist us in our story, I will venture to give them both. 

" Silverbridge, December, 186-. 

"Deakest Lilt, 

" I HARDLY know how to tell you what has happened, it is so 
very terrible. But perhaps you will have heard it already, as every- 
body is talking of it here. It has got into the newspapers, and there- 
fore it cannot be kept secret. Not that I should keep anything from 
you ; only this is so very dreadful that I hardly know how to write it. 
Somebody says, — a Mr. Soames, I believe it is, — that papa has taken 
some money that does not belong to him, and he is to be brouglit 
before the magistrates and tried. Of course, papa has done nothing 
wrong. I do think he would be the last man in the world to take a 

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penny that did not belong to liim. You know how poor he is ; what 
a life he has had ! But I think he would almost sooner see mamma 
starving ; — I am sure he would rather be starved himself, than even 
borrow a shilling which he could not pay. To suppose that he would 
take money " (she had tried to write the word " steal," but she could 
not bring her pen to form the letters) " is monstrous. But, somehow, 
the circumstances have been made to look bad against him, and they 
say that he must come over here to the magistrates. I often think 
that of all men in the world papa is the most unfortunate. Everything 
seems to go against him, and yet he is so good ! Poor mamma has 
been over here, and she is distracted. I never saw her so wretched 
before. She had been to your friend, Mr. Walker, and came to me 
afterwards for a minute. Mr. Walker ha.8 got something to do with it, 
th-ough majjima says she thinks ho is quite friendly to papa. I wonder 
whether you could find out, through Mr. Walker, what he thinks about 
it Of course, mamma knows that papa has done nothing wrong ; but 
she says that the whole thing is most mysterious, and that she does not 
know how to account for the money. Papa, you know, is not like 
other people. He forgets things ; and is always thinking, thinking, 
thinking of his great misfortunes. Poor papa ! My heart bleeds so 
when I remember all his sorrows, that I hate myself for thinking 
about myself. 

" When mamma left me, — and it was then I first knew that papa 
would really have to be tried, — I went to Miss Annabella, and told her 
that I would go home. She asked me why, and I said I would not 
disgrace her house by staying in it. She got up and took me in her 
arms, and there came a tear out of both her dear old eyes, and she 
said that if anything evil came to papa, — which she would not believe, 
as she knew him to be a good man, — there should be a home in her 
house not only for me, but for mamma and Jane. Isn't she a wonderful 
woman 1 When I think of her, I sometimes think that she must be 
an angel already. Then she became very serious, — for just before, 
through her tears, she had tried to smile, — and she told me to remember 
that all people could not be like her, who had nobody to look to but 
herself and her sister ; and that at present I must task myself not to 
think of that which I had been thinking of before. She did not 
mention anybody's name, but of course I understood very well what 
she meant ; and I suppose she is right. I said nothing in answer to 

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her, for I could not speak. She was holding my hand, and I took hers 
up and kissed it, to show her, if I could, that I knew that she was 
right ; but I could not have spoken about it for all the world. It was 
not ten days since that she herself, with all her prudence, told me that 
she thought I ought to make up my mind what answer I would give 
him. And then I did not say anything ; but of course she knew. And 
after that Miss Anne spoke quite freely about it, so that I had to beg 
her to be silent even before the girls. You know how imprudent she 
is. But it is all over now. Of course Miss Annabella is right. He 
has got a great many people to think of; his father and mother, and 
bis darling little Edith, whom he brought here twice, and left her with 
us once for two days, so that she got to know me quite well ; and I 
took such a love for her, that I could not bear to part with her. But 
I think sometimes that all our family are born to be unfortunate, and 
then I tell myself that I will never hope for anything again. 

" Pray write to me soon. I feel as though nothing on earth could 
comfort me, and yet I shall like to have your letter. Dear, dear Lily, 
I am not even yet so wretched but what I shall rejoice to be told good 
news of you. If it only could be as John wishes it ! And why should 
it not 1 It seems to me that nobody has a right or a reason to be 
unhappy except us. Good-bye, dearest Lily. 

" Your affectionate friend, 

"Grace Crawlbt." 

"P.S. — I think I have made up my mind that I will go back to I 
Hogglestock at once if the magistrates decide against papa. I think I 
should be doing the school harm if I were to stay here." 

The answer to this letter did not reach Miss Crawley till after the 
magistrates* meeting on the Thursday, but it will be better for our story 
that it should be given here than postponed until the result of that 
meeting shall have been told. Miss Dale's anwer was as follows : — 

" Allington, December, 186-. 

"Dear Grace, 

" Your letter has made me very unhappy. If it can at all 
comfort you to know that mamma and I sympathize with you alto- 
gether, of that you may at any rate be sure. But in such troubles 

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nothing will give comfort. They must he home tiU the fire of 
misfortune bums itself out. 

" I had heard about the affair a day or two before I got your note. 
Our clergyman, Mr. Boyce, told us of it. Of course we all know that 
the charge must be altogether unfounded, and mamma says that the 
truth will be sure to show itself at last. But that conviction does not 
cure the evil, and I can well understand that your father should suffer 
grievously ; and I pity your mother quite as much as I do him. 

" As for Major Grantly, if he be such a man as I took him to be 
from the Httle I saw of him, all this would make no difference to him. 
I am sure that it ought to make none. Whether it should not make 
a difference in you is another question. I think it should ; and I think 
your answer to him should be that you could not even consider any 
such proposition while your father was in so great trouble. I am so 
much older than you, and seem to have had so much experience, that 
I do not scruple, as you will see, to come down upon you with all the 
weight of my wisdom. 

" About that other subject I had rather say nothing. I have known 
your cousin all my life, almost ; and I regard no one more kindly than 
I do him. When I think of my friends, he is always one of the 
dearest. But when one thinks of going beyond friendship, even if one 
tries to do so, there are so many barriers ! 

" Your affectionate friend, 

" Lilt Dale. 

" Mamma bids me say that she would be dehghted to have you here 
whenever it might suit you to come ; and I add to this message my 
entreaty that you will come at once. You say that you think you 
ought to leave Miss Prettyman's for a while. I can well understand 
your feeling ; but as your sister is with your mother, surely you had 
better come to us, — I mean quite at once. I will not scruple to tell 
you what mamma says, because I know your good sense. She says 
that as the interest of the school may possibly be concerned, and as 
you have no regular engagement, she thinks you ought to leave Silver- 
bridge ; but she says that it will be better that you come to us than 
that you should go home. If you went home, people might say that 
you had left in some sort of disgrace. Come to us, and when all this 
has been put right, then you go back to Silverbridge ; and then, if a 

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certain person speaks again, you can make a different answer. Mamma 
quite understands that you are to come ; so you have only got to ask 
your own mamma, and come at once." 

This letter, as the reader will understand, did not reach Gmce 
Crawley till after the all-important Thursday ; but before that day had 
come round, Grace had told Miss Prettyman, — had told both the Miss 
Prettymans, — that she was resolved to leave them. She had done this 
without even consulting her mother, driven to it by various motives. 
She knew that her father's conduct was being discussed by the girls in 
the school, and that things were said of him which it could not but be 
for the disadvantage of Miss Prettyman that any one should say of a 
teacher in her establishment. She felt, too, that she could not hold up 
her head in Silverbridge in these days, as it would become her to do if 
she retained her position. She did struggle gallantly, and succeeded 
much more nearly than she was herself aw^Cre. She was all but able 
to carry herself as though no terrible accusation was being made against 
her father. Of the struggle, however, she was not herself the less 
conscious, and she told herself that on that account also she must go. 
And then she must go also because of Major Grantly. Whether he was 
minded to come and speak to her that one other needed word, or 
whether he was not so minded, it would be better that she should be 
away from Silverbridge. If he spoke it she could only answer him 
by a negative ; and if he were minded not to speak it, would it not 
be better that she should leave herself the power of thinking that 
his silence had been caused by her absence, and not by his coldness 
or indifference 1 

She asked, therefore, for an interview with Miss Prettyman, and was 
shown into the elder sister's room, at eleven o'clock on the Tuesday 
morning. The elder Miss Prettyman never came into the school herself 
till twelve, but was in the habit of having inter\'^*ews with the young 
ladies, — which were sometimes very awful in their nature, — h'V the 
two previous hours. During these interviews an immense amount of 
business was done, and the fortunes in life of some girls were said to 
have been there made or maned ; as when, for instance, Miss Crimpton 
had been advised to stay at home with her uncle in England, instead 
of going out with her sisters to India, both -of which sisters were 
married within three months of their landing at Bombay. The way 

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in which she gave her counsel on such occasions was very efficacious. 
No one knew better than Miss Prettyman that a cock can crow most 
efifectively in his own farmyard, and therefore all crowing intended to 
be eflfective was done by her within the shrine of her own peculiar room. 

"Well, my dear, what is iti" she said to Grace. "Sit in the 
arm-chair, my dear, and we can then talk comfortably." The teachers, 
when they were closeted with Miss Prettyman, T^ere always asked to 
sit in the arm-chair, whereas a small, straight-backed, uneasy chair was 
kept for the use of the young ladies. And there was, too, a stool of 
repentance, out against the wall, very uncomfortable indeed for young 
ladies who had not behaved themselves so prettily as young ladies 
generally do. 

Grace seated herself, and then began her speech very quickly. 
" Miss Prettyman," she said, " I have made up my mind that I will go 
home, if you please." 

" And why should you go home, Grace % Did I not tell you that 
you should have a home here ? " Miss Prettyman had weak eyes,, and 
was very small, and had never possessed any claim to be called good- 
looking. And she assumed nothing of majestical awe from any 
adornment or studied amplification of the outward woman by means of 
impressive trappings. The possessor of an unobservant eye might have 
called her a mean-looking little old woman. And certainly there 
would have been nothmg awful in her to any one who came across her 
otherwise than as a lady having authority in her own school. But 
within her own precincts, she did know how to surround herself with 
a dignity which all felt who approached her there. Grace Crawley, as 
she heard the simple question which Miss Prettyman had asked, 
unconsciously acknowledged the strength of the woman's manner. 
She already stood rebuked for having proposed a plan so ungracious, 
so unnecessary, and so unwise. 

" I think I ought to be with mamma at present," said Grace. 

" Your mother has your sister with her." 

" Yes, Miss Prettyman ; Jane is there. ^ 

" K there be no other reason, I cannot think that that can be held 
to be a reason now. Of course your mother would like to have you 
always ; unless you should be married, — but then there are reasons 
why this should not be so." 

VOL. I. B 

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" Of course there are." 

" I do not think, — that is, if I know all that there is to be known, 
— I do not think, I say, that there can be any good ground for your 
leaving us now, — just now." 

Then Grace sat silent for a moment, gathering her courage, and 
collecting her words; and after that she spoke. "It is because of 
papa, and because of this charge " 

"But, Grace " 

" I know what you are going to say. Miss Prettyman ; — that is, I 
think I know." 

" If you will hear me, you may be sure that you know." 

" But I want you to hear me for one moment first. I beg your 
pardon. Miss Prettyman ; I do indeed, but I want to say this before 
you go on. I must go home, and I know I ought. We are all dis- 
graced, and I won*t stop here to disgrace the school. I know papa has 
done nothing wrong ; but nevertheless we are disgraced. The police 
are to bring him in here on Thursday, and everybody in Silverbridge 
will know it. It cannot be right that I should be here teaching in the 
school, while it is all going on; — and I wou't. And, Miss Prettyman, 
I couldn't do it, — ^indeed I couldn't. I can't bring myt«elf to think of 
anything I am doing. Indeed I can't ; and then, Miss Prettyman, 
there are other reasons." By the time that she had proceeded thus far, 
Grace Crawley's words were nearly choked by her tears. 

" And what are the other reasons, Grace 1 " 

" I don't know," said Grace, struggling to speak through her tears. 

** But I know," said Miss Prettyman. " I know them all. I know 
all your reasons, and I tell you that in my opinion you ought to 
remain where you are, and not go away. The very reasons which to 
you are reasons for your going, te me are reasons for your remaining 

" I can't remain. I am determined to go. I don't mind yon and 
Miss Anne, but I can't bear to have the girls looking at me, and the 

Then Miss Prettyman paused awhile, thinking what words of wisdom 
would be most*appropriate in the present conjuncture. But words of 
wisdom did not seem to come easily to her, having for the moment 
been banished by tenderness of heart. " Come here, my love," she 
said at last. " Come here, Grace " Slowly Grace got up from her 

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seat and came round, and stood by Miss Prettyman's elbow. Miss 
Prettyman pushed her chair a little back, and pushed herself a little 
forward, and stretching out one hand, placed her arm round Grace's 
waist, and with the other took hold of Grace's hand, and thus drew 
her down and kissed the girl's forehead and lips. And then Grace 
found herself kneeling at her friend's feet. " Grace," she said, " do 
you not know that I love you ? Do you not know that I love you 
dearly ] " In answer to this, Grace kissed the withered hand she held 
in hers, while the warm tears trickled down upon Miss Prettyman's 
knuckles. " I love you as though you were my own," exclaimed the 
schoolmistress ; " and will you not trust me, that I know what is best 
for you?" 

" I must go home," said Grace. 

" Of course you shall, if you think it right at last ; but let us talk 
of it. No one in this house, you know, has the slightest suspicion that 
your father has done anything that is in the least dishonourable." 

" I know that you have not." 

" No, nor has Anne." Miss Prettyman said this as though no one 
in that house beyond herself and her sister had a right to have any 
opinion on any subject. 

" I know that," said Grace. 

" Well, my dear. If we think so " 

" But the servants. Miss Prettyman 1 " 

" If any servant in this house says a word to oflfend you, I'll — 

ru " 

" They don't say anything. Miss Prettyman, but they look. Indeed 
I'd better go home. Indeed I had ! " 

" Do not you think your mother has cares enough upon her, and 
burden enough, without having another mouth to feed, and another 
head to shelter. You haven't thought of that, Grace 1 " 

" Yes, I have." 

" And as for the work, whilst you are not quite well you shall not 
be troubled with teaching. I have some old papers that want copying 
and settling, and you shall sit here and do that just for an employment. 
Anne knows that I've long wanted to have it done, and I'll tell her 
that you've kindly promised to do it for me." 

" No ; no ; no," said Grace ; " I must go home." She was still 
kneeling at Miss Prettyman's knee, and stiU holding Miss Prettyman's 

E 2 

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hand. And then, at that moment, there came a tap at the door, gentle 
but yet not humble, a tap which acknowledged, on the part of the 
tapper, the supremacy in that room of the lady who was sitting there, 
but which still claimed admittance almost as a right. The tap was 
well known by both of them to be the tap of Miss Anne. Grace 
immediately jumped up, and Miss Prettyman settled herself in her 
chair with a motion which almost seemed to indicate some feeling of 
shame as to her late position. 

" I suppose 1 may come in 1 " said Miss Anne, opening the door 
and inserting her head. 

" Yes, you may come in, —if you have anything to say," said Miss 
Prettyman, with an air which seemed to be intended to assert her 
supremacy. But, in truth, she was simply collecting the wisdom and 
dignity which had been somewhat dissipated by her tenderness. 

" I did not know that Grace Crawley was here," said Miss Anne. 

" Grace Crawley is here," said Miss Prettyman. 

" What is the matter, Grace ] " said Miss Anne, seeing the tears. 
: '* Never mind now," said Miss Prettyman. 

" Poor dear, I*m sure Tm sorry as though she were my own sister/' 
said Anne. " But, Annabella, I want to speak to you especially." 

" To me, in private % " 

" Yes, to you ; in private, if Grace won't mind ] " 

Then Grace prepared to go. But as she was going. Miss Anne, 
upon whose brow a heavy burden of thought was lying, stopped her 
suddenly. " Grace, my dear," she said, " go upstairs into your room, 
will you 1 — not across the hall to the school" 

" And why shouldn't she go to the school % " said Miss Prettyman. 

Miss Anne paused a moment, and then answered, — unwillingly, as 
though driven to make a reply which she knew to be indiscreet. 
" Because there is somebody in the hall." 

" Go to your room, dear," said Miss Prettyman. And Grace went 
to her room, never turning an eye down towards the halL " Who is 
it % " said Miss Prettyman. 

" Major Grantly is here, asking to see you," said Miss Anne. 

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Major Grantly, when threatened by his father with pecuniary punish- 
ment, should he demean himself by such a marriage as that he had 
proposed to himself, had declared that he would offer his hand to Miss 
Crawley on the next morning. Thi^, however, he had not done. He had, 
not done it, partly because he did not quite believe his father's threat, 
and partly because he felt that that threat was almost justified, — for 
the present moment, — by the circumstances in which Grace Crawley's 
father had placed himself. Henry Grantly acknowledged, as he drove 
himself home on the morning after his dinner at the rectory, that in 
this matter of his marriage he did owe much to his family. Should he 
marry at all, he owed it to them to marry a lady. And Grace Crawley, 
— so he told himself, — was a lady. And he owed it to them to bring 
among them as his wife a woman who should not disgrace him or them by 
her education, manners, or even by her personal appearance. In all 
these respects Grace Crawley was, in his judgment, quite as good as 
they had a right to expect her to be, and ia some respects a great deal 
superior to that type of womanhood with which they had been most^ 
generally conversant. ** If everybody had her due, my sister i^n't fit 
to hold a candle to her," he said to himself. It must be acknowledged, 
therefore, that he was really in love with Grace Crawley. And he 
declared to himself, over and over again, that his family had no right 
to demand that he should marry a woman with money. The arch- 
deacon's son by no means despised money. How could he, having 
come forth as a bird fledged from such a nest as the rectory at Plum- 
stead Episcopi ] Before he had been brought by his better nature and 
true judgment to see that Grace Crawley was the greater woman of the 
two, he had nearly submitted himself to the twenty thousand pounds 
of Miss Emily Dunstable, — to that, and her good-humour and rosy 

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freshness combined. But he regarded himself as the well-to-do son of 
a very rich father. His only child was amply provided for ; and he 
felt that, as regarded money, he had a right to do as he pleased. He 
felt this with double strength after his father's threat. 

But he had no right to make a marriage by which his family would 
be disgraced. Whether he was right or wrong in supposing that he 
would disgrace his family were he to marry the daughter of a convicted 
thief, it is hardly necessary to discuss here. He told himself that it 
would be so, — telling himself also that, by the stern laws of the world, 
the son and the daughter must pay for the offence of the father and the 
mother. Even among the poor, who would willingly marry the child 
of a man who had been hanged ? But he carried the argument beyond 
this, thinking much of the matter, and endeavouring to think of it not 
only justly, but generously. If the accusation against Crawley were 
false, — if the man were being injured by an unjust charge, — even if he, 
Grantly, could make himself think that the girl's father had not stolen 
the money, then he would dare everything and go on. I do not know 
that his argument was good, or that his mind was logical in the matter 
He ought to have. felt that his own judgment as to the man's guilt was 
less likely to be correct than that of those whose duty it was and would 
be to form and to express a judgment on the matter ; and as to Grace 
herself, she was equally innocent whether her father were guilty or not 
guilty. If he were to be debarred from asking her for her hand by his 
feelings for his father and mother, he should hardly have trusted to 
his own skill in ascertaining the real truth as to the alleged theft. 
But he was not logical, and thus, meaning to be generous, he became 

He found that among those in Silverbridge whom he presumed to 
be best informed on such matters, there was a growing opinion that 
Mr. Crawley had stolen the money. lie was intimate with all the 
Walkers, and was able to find out that Mrs. Walker knew that her 
husband believed in the clergyman's guilt. He was by no means alone 
•in his willingness to accept Mr. Walkers opinion as the true opinion. 
Silverbridge, generally, was endeavouring to dress itself in Mr. Walker's 
glass, and to believe as Mr. Walker believed. The ladies of Silver- 
bridge, including the Miss Prettymans, were aware that Mr. Walker 
had been very kind both to Mr. and Mrs. Crawley, and argued from 
this that Mr. Walker must think the man to be innocent. But Henrv 

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Gfrantly, who did not dare to ask a direct question of the soKcitor, went 
cunningly to work, and closeted himself with Mrs. Walker,— with Mrs. 
Walker, who knew well of the good fortune which was hovering over 
Grace's head and was so nearly settling itself upon her shoulders. She 
would have given a finger to be able to whitewash Mr. Crawley in the 
major's estimation. !Nor must it be supposed that she told the major 
in plain words that her husband had convinced himself of the man's 
guilt. In plain words no question was asked between them, and in 
plain words no opinion was expressed. But there was the look of 
sorrow in the woman's eye, there was the absence of reference to her 
husband's assurance that the man was innocent, there was the air of 
settled grief which told of her own conviction ; — and the major left her, 
convinced that Mrs. Walker believed Mr. Crawley to be guilty. 

Then he went to Barchester ; not open-mouthed with inquiry, but 
rather with open ears, and it seemed to him that all men in Barchester 
were of one mind. There was a county-club in Barchester, and at this 
county-club nine men out of every ten were talking about Mr. Crawley. 
It was by no means necessary that a man should ask questions on the 
subject. Opinion was expressed so freely that no such asking was 
required ; syid opinion in Barchester, — at any rate in the county-club, 
— seemed now to be all of one mind. There had been every disposition 
at first to believe Mr. Crawley to be innocent. He had been believed 
to be innocent, even after he had said wrongly that the cheque had 
been paid to him by Mr. Soames ; but he had since stated that he had 
received it from Bean Arabin, and that statement was also shown to be 
false. A m£m who has a cheque changed on his own behalf is bound 
at least to show where he got the cheque. Mr. Crawley had not only 
failed to do this, but had given two false excuses. Henry Grantly, as 
he drove home to Silverbridge on the Sunday afternoon, summed up all 
the evidence in his own mind, and brought in a verdict of Guilty against 
the father of the girl whom he loved. 

On the following morning he walked into Silverbridge and called at 
Miss Prettyman's house. As he went along his heart was warmer 
towards Grace than it had ever been before. He had told himself that 
he was now bound to abstain, for his father's sake, from doing that 
which he had told his father that he would certainly do. But he knew 
also, that he had said that which, though it did not bind him to Miss 
Crawley, gave her a light to expect that he would so bind himself. 

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And Miss Prettyman could not but be aware of what his intention had 
been, and could not but expect that he should now be explicit. Had 
he been a wise man altogether, he would probably have abstained from 
saying anything at the present moment, — a wise man, that is, in the 
ways and feelings of the world in such matters. But, as there are men 
who will allow themselves all imaginable latitude in their treatment of 
women, believing that the world will condone any amount of fault of 
that nature, so are there other men, and a class of men which on the 
whole is the more numerous of the two, who are tremblingly alive to 
the danger of censure on this head, — and to the danger of censure not 
only from others, but from themselves also. Major Grantly had done 
that which made him think it imperative upon him to do something 
further, and to do that something at once. 

Therefore he started off on the Monday morning after breakfast and 
walked to Silverbridge, and as he walked he built various castles in the 
air. Wliy should he not marry Grace, — if she would have him, — and 
take her away beyond the reach of her father's calamity 1 Why should 
he not throw over his own people altogether, money, position, society, 
and all, and give himself up to love 1 Were he to do so, men might 
§ay that he was foolish, but no one could hint that he was dishonour- 
able. His spirit was high enough to teach him to think that such 
conduct on his part would have in it something of magnificence ; but, 
yet, such was not his purpose. In going to Miss Prettyman it was his 
intention to apologize for not doing this magnificent thing. His mind 
was quite made up. Nevertheless he built those castles in the air. 

It so happened that he encountered the younger Miss Prettyman in 
the hall. It would not at all have suited him to reveal to her the 
purport of his visit, or ask her either to assist his suit or to receive hia 
apologies. Miss Anne Prettyman was too common a personage in the 
Silverbridge world to be fit for such employment. Miss Anne Prettyman 
was, indeed, herself submissive to him, and treated him with the courtesy 
which is due to a superior being. He therefore simply asked her whether 
he could be allowed to see her sister. 

" Surely, Major Grantly ; — ^that is, I think so. It is a little early, 
but I think she can receive you." 

" It is early, I know ; but as I want to say a word or two on 
business " 

" Oh, on business. I am sure she will see you on business ; she 

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will only be too proud. If you will be kind enough to step in here for 
two minutes." Then Miss Anne, having deposited the major in the 
little parlour, ran upstairs with her message to her sister. " Of course, 
it's about Grace Crawley," she said to herself as she went. " It can't 
be about anything eke. I wonder what it is he's going to say. If he's 
going to pop, and the father in all this trouble, he's the finest fellow 
that ever trod." Such were her thoughts as she tapped at the door 
and announced in the presence of Grace that there was somebody in 
the hall. 

" It's Major Grantly," whispered Anne, as soon as Grace had shut 
the door behind her. 

" So I supposed by your telling her not to go into the halL What 
has he come to say ] " 

" How on earth can I tell you that, Annabella % But I suppose he 
can have only one thing to say after all that has come and gone. He 
can only have come with one object.'* 

" He wouldn't have come to me for that. He would have asked to 
see herself." 

" But she never goes out now, and he can't see her." 

" Or he would have gone to them over at Hogglestock," said Miss 
Prettyman. " But of course he must come up now he is here. Would 
you mind telling him ; —or shall I ring the belli" 

" I'll tell him. We need not make more fuss than necessary, with 
the servants, you know. I suppose Fd better not come back with 

There was a tone of supplication in the younger sister's voice as she 
made the last suggestion, which ought to have melted the heart of the 
elder ; but it was unavailing. " As he has asked to see me, I think 
you had better not," said Annabella. Miss Anne Prettyman bore her 
cross meekly, offered no argument on the subject, and returning to the 
little parlour where she had left the major, brought him upstairs and 
ushered him into her sister's room without even entering it again, herself. 

Major Grantly was as intimately acquainted with^Miss Anne Pretty- 
man as a man under, thirty may well be with a lady nearer fifty than 
forty, who is not specially connected with him by any family tie ; but 
i>f Miss Prettyman he knew personally very much less. Miss Pretty- 
man, as has before been said, did not go out, and was therefore not 
common to the eyes of the Silverbridgians. She did occasionally see 

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her friends in her own house, and Grace Crawley's lover, as the major 
had come to he called, had heen there on more than one occasion ; but 
of real personal intimacy between them there had hitherto existed none. 
He might have spoken, perhaps, a dozen words to her in his life. He 
had now more than a dozen to sneak to her, but he hardly knew how 
to commence them. 

She had got up and curtseyed, and had then taken his hand and 
asked him to sit down. " My sister tells me that you want to see me," 
she said, in her softest, mildest voice. 

^* I do. Miss Pretty man. I want to speak to you about a matter 
that troubles me very much, — very much indeed." 

" Anything that I can do. Major Grantly " 

** Thank you, yes. I know that you are very good, op I should not 
have ventured to come to you. Indeed I shouldn't trouble you now, 
of course, if it was only about myself. I know very well what a great 
friend you are to Miss Crawley." 

" Yes, I am. We love Grace dearly here." 

" So do I," said the major, bluntly ; " I love her dearly, too." Then 
he paused, as though he thought that Miss Prettyman ought to take 
up the speech. But Miss Prettyman seemed to think differently, and 
he was obliged to go on. "I don't know whether you have ever 

heard about it, or noticed it, or — or— or ^" He felt that he was 

very awkward, and he blushed. Major as he was, he blushed as he 
sat before the old woman, trying to tell his story, but not knowing 
how to tell it. " The truth is. Miss Prettyman, I have done all but 
ask her to be my wifp, and now has come this terrible affair about her 

" It is a terrible affair Major Grantly ; — ^very terrible." 

^* By Jove, you may say that ! " 

* Of course Mr. Crawley is as innocent in the matter as you or I are." 

" You think so. Miss Prettyman ? " 

"Think so ! I feel quite sure of it. What ; a clergyman of the 
Church of England, a pious, hard-working country clergyman, whona 
we have known among us by his good works for years, suddenly turn 
thief, and pilfer a few pounds 1 It is not possible. Major Grantly, 
And the father of such a daughter, too ! It is not possible. It may do 
for men of business to think so, lawyers and such like, who are obliged 
to think in accordance with the evidence, as they call it ; but to my 

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mind the idea is monstrous. I don't know how he got it, and I don't 
care ; hut I'm quite sure he did not steal it. Who ever heard of 
anybody becoming so base as that all at once 1 " 

The major was startled by her eloquence, and by the indignant tone 
of voice in which it was expressed. It seemed to tell him that she 
would give him no sympathy in that which he had come to say to her, 
and that she was prepared to upbraid him already in that he was not 
prepared to do the magnificent thing of which he had thought when he 
had been building his castles in the air. Why should he not do the 
magnificent thing % Miss Prettyman's eloquence was so strong that it 
half convinced him that the Barchester Club and Mr. Walker had 
come to a wrong conclusion after all. 

"And how does Miss Crawley bear it?" he asked, desirous of 
postponing for a while any declaration of his own purpose. 

" She is very unhappy, of course. Not that she thinks evil of her 

" Of course she does not think him guilty % " 

"Nobody thinks him so in this house. Major Grantly," said the 
little woman, very imperiously. "But Grace is, naturally enough, 
very sad ; — very sad indeed. I do not think I can ask you to see her 

" I was not thinking of it," said the major. 

" Poor, dear girl ! it is a great trial for her. Do you wish me to 
give her any message, Major Grantly ] " 

The moment had now come in which he must say that which he 
had come to say. The little woman waited for an answer, and as he 
was there, within her power as it were, he must speak. I fear that 
Ivhat he said will not be approved by any strong-minded reader. I 
fear that our lover will henceforth be considered by such a one as 
being but a weak, wishy-washy man, who had hardly any mind of his 
own to speak of; — that he was a man of no account, as the poor people 
say. " Miss Prettyman, what message ought I to send to her 1 " he 

"Nay, Major Grantly, how can I tell you thati How can I put 
words into your mouth 1 " 

"It isn't the words," he said; "but the feelings?" 

" And how can I tell the feelings of your heart 1 " 

" Oh, as for that, I know what my feelings are. I do love her with 

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all my heart ; — I do, indeed. A fortnight ago I was only thinking 
whether she would accept me when I asked her, — wondering whether 
I was too old for her, and whether she would mind having Edith to 
take care of." 

" She is very fond of Edith, — very fond indeed." 

" Is she 1 " said the major, more distracted than ever. Why should 
he not do the magnificent thing after all 1 " But it is a great charge 
for a young girl when she marries." 

" It is a great charge ; — a very great charge. It is for you to think 
whether you should entrust so great a charge to one so young." 

" I have no fear ahout that at all." 

" Nor should I have any, — as you ask me. We have known Grace 
weU, thoroughly, and are quite sure that she will do her duty in that 
state of life to which it may please God to call her." 

The major was aware when this was said to him that he had not 
come to Miss Prettyman for a character of the girl he loved ; and yet 
he was not angry at receiving it. He was neither angry, nor even 
indifferent. He accepted the character almost gratefully, though he 
felt that he was being led away from his purpose. He consoled 
himself for this, however, by remembering that the path by which 
Miss Prettyman was now leading him, led to the magnificent, and to 
those pleasant castles in the air which he had been building as he 
walked into Silverbridge. " I am quite sure that she is all that you 
say," he replied. " Indeed I had made up my mind about that long 

"And what can I do for you. Major Grantlyl" 

" You think I ought not to see her % " 

" I will ask herself, if you please. I have such trust in her judgment 
that I should leave her altogether to her own discretion." 

The magnificent thing must be done, and the major made up his 
mind accordingly. Something of regret came over his spirit as he 
thought of a father-in-law disgraced and degraded, and of his own 
father broken-hearted. But now there was hardly an alternative left 
to him. And was it not the manly thing for him to do ? He had 
loved the girl before this trouble had come upon her, and was he not 
bound to accept the burden which his love had brought with it 1 "I 
will see her," he said, "at once, if you will let me, and ask her to be 
my wife. But I must see her alone." 

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Then Miss Prettyman paused. Hitherto she had undoubtedly been 
playing her fish cautiously, .or rather her young friend's fish, — perhaps 
I may say cunningly. She had descended to artifice on behalf of the 
girl whom she loved, admired, and pitied. She had seen some way 
into the man's mind, and had been partly aware of his purpose, — of his 
infirmity of purpose, of his double purpose. She had perceived that a 
word from her might help Grace's chance, and liad led the man on till 
he had committed himself, at any rate to her. In doing this she had 
been actuated by friendship rather than by abstract principle. But 
now, when the moment had come in which she must decide upon some 
action, she paused. "Was it right, for the sake of either of them, that 
an offer of marriage should be made at such a moment as this ? It 
might be very well, in regard to some future time, that the major 
should have so committed himself. She saw something of the man's 
spirit, and believed that, having gone so far, having so far told his 
love, he would return to his love hereafter, let the result of the Crawley 
trial be what it might. But, — but, this could be no proper time for 
love-making. Though Grace loved the man, as Miss Prettyman knew 
well, — though Grace loved the child, having allowed herself to 
long to call it her own, — though such a marriage would be the making 
of Grace's fortune as those who loved her could hardly have hoped 
that it should ever have been made, she would certainly refuse the 
man, if he were to propose to her now. She would refuse him, and 
then the man would be free; — free to change his mind if he thought 
fit. Considering all these things, craftily in the exercise of her 
friendship, too cunningly, I fear, to satisfy the claims of a high morality, 
she resolved that the major had better not see Miss Crawley at the 
present moment. Miss Prettyman paused before she rephed, and, when 
she did speak, Major Grantly had risen from his chair and was standing 
with his back to' the fire. " Major Grantly," she said, " you shall see 
her if you please, and if she pleases ; but I doubt whether her answer 
at such a moment as this would be that which you would wish to 

"You think she would refuse me." 

" I do not think that she would accept you now. She would feel, 
—I am sure she would feel, that these hours of her father's sorrow are 
not hours in which love should be either offered or accepted. You 
shall, however, see her if you please." 

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The major allowed himself a moment for thought ; and as he 
thought he sighed. Grace Crawley became more beautiful in his eyes 
than ever, was endowed by these words from Miss Prettyman with new 
charms and brighter virtues than he had seen before. Let come what 
might he would ask her to be his wife on some future day, if he did not 
so ask her now. For the present, perhaps, he had better be guided by 
Miss Prettyman. " Then I will not see her," he said. 

" I think that will be the wiser course." 

" Of course you knew before this that I — loved her^' 

" I thought so, Major Grantly." 

" And that I intended to ask her to be my :wif e ? " 

** Well; since you put the question to me so plainly, I must confess 
that as Grace's friend I should not quite have let things go on as they 
have gone, — though I am not at all disposed to interfere with any girl 
whom I believe to be pure and good as I know her to be, — ^but still I 
should hardly have been justified in letting things go as they have gone 
if I had not believed that such was your purpose." 

" I wanted to set myself right with you. Miss Prettyman." 

" You are right with me — quite right ; " and she got up and gave 
him her hand. *' You are a fine, noble-hearted gentleman, and I hope 
that our Grace may live to be your happy wife, and the mother of your 
darling child, and the mother of other children. I do not see how a 
woman could have a happier lot in lil'e." 

" And will you give Grace my love % " 

" I will tell her at any rate that you have been here, and that you 
liave inquired after her with the greatest kindness. She will under- 
stand what that means without any word of love." 

" Can I do anything for her, — or for her father ; I mean in the way 
of — money ? I don't mind mentioning it to you. Miss Prettyman." 

"I will tell her that you are to do it, if anything c^n be done. 
For myself I feel no doubt that the mystery will be cleared up at last; 
and then, if you will come here, we shall be so glad to see you ; — I 
shall, at least." 

Then the major went, and Miss Prettyman herself actually descended 
with him into the hall, and bade him farewell most affectionately 
before her sister and two of the maids who came out to open the door. 
Miss Anne Prettyman, when she saw the great friendship with which 
the major was dismissed, could not contain herself, but asked most 

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impudent questions, in a whisper indeed, but in such a whisper that 
any sharp-eared maid-servant could hear and understand them. " Is 
it settled," she asked when her sister had ascended only the first flight 
of stairs ; — " has he popped 1, " The look with which the elder sister 
punished and dismayed the younger, I would not have borne for twenty 
pounds. She simply looked, and said nothing, but passed on. When 
she had regained her room she rang the bell, and desired the servant 
to ask Miss Crawley to be good enough to step to her. Poor Miss 
Anne retired discomfited into the solitude of one of the lower rooms, 
and sat for some minutes all alone, recovering fyom the shock of her 
sister's anger. " At any rate, he hasn't popped," she said to herself, 
as she made her way back to the school. 

After that Miss Prettyman and Miss Crawley were closeted together 
for about an hour. What passed between them need not be repeated 
here word for word ; but it may be understood that Miss Prettyman 
said no more than she ought to have said, and that Grace understood 
all that she ought to have understood. " No man ever behaved with 
more considerate friendship, or more like a gentleman," said Miss 

" I am sure he is very good, and I am so glad he did not ask to 
see me," said Grace. Then Grace went away, and Miss Prettyman sat 
awhile in thought, considering what she had done, not without some 
stings of conscience. 

Major Grantly, as he walked home, was not altogether satisfied with 
himself, though he gave himself credit for some diplomacy which I do 
not think he deserved. He felt that Miss Prettyman and the world 
in general, should the world in general ever hear anything about it, 
would give him credit for having behaved well ; and that he had 
obtained this credit without committing himself to the necessity of 
marrying the daughter of a thief, should things turn out badly in regard 
to the father. But, — and this but robbed him of all the pleasure which 
comes from real success, — but he had not treated Grace Crawley with 
the perfect generosity which love owes, and he was in some degree 
ashamed of himself. He felt, however, that he might probably have 
Grace, should he choose to ask for her when this trouble should have 
passed by. " And I will," he said to himself, as he entered the gate 
of his own paddock, and saw his child in her perambulator before the 
nurse. "And I will ask her, sooner or later, let things go as they 

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may." Then he took the perambulator under his own charge for 
half-an-hour, to the satisfaction of the nurse, of the child, and of 



It had become necessary on the Monday morning that Mrs. Crawley 
should obtain from her husband an undertaking that he would 
present himself before the magistrates at Silverbridge on the Thursday. 
She had been made to understand that the magistrates were sinning 
against the strict rule of the law in not issuing a warrant at once for 
Mr. Crawley's apprehension; and that they were so sinning at the 
instance of Mr. Walker, — at whose instance they would have committed 
almost any sin practicable by a board of English magistrates, so great 
was their faith in him; and she knew that she was bound to answer 
her engagement. She had also another task to perform — that, namely, 
of persuading him to employ an attorney for his defence ; and she 
was prepared with the name of an attorney, one Mr. Mason, also of 
Silverbridge, who had been recommended to her by Mr. Walker. But 
when she came to the performance of these two tasks on the Monday 
morning, she found that she was unable to accomplish either of them. 
Mr. Crawley first declared that he would have nothing to do with any 
attorney. As to that he seemed to have made up his mind beforehand, 
and she saw at once that she had no hope of shaking him. But when 
she found that he was equally obstinate in the other matter, and that 
he declared that he would not go before the magistrates unless he were 
made to do so, — unless the policemen came and fetched him, then she 
almost sank beneath the burden of her troubles, and for a while was 
disposed to let things go as they would. 

On the Sunday the poor man had exerted himself to get through 

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Ids Sunday duties, and he had succeeded. He had succeeded so well 
that his wife had thought that things might yet come right with him, 
that he would remember, before it was too late, the true history of that 
xmhappy bit of paper, and that he was rising above that half madness 
which for months past had afflicted him. On the Sunday evening, when 
lie was tired with his work, she thought it best to say nothing to him 
about the magistrates and the business of Thursday. Bat on the Monday 
morning she commenced her task, feeling that she owed it to Mr. Walker 
to lose no more time. He was very decided in his manners, and made 
her understand that he would employ no lawyer on his own behalf. 
** Why should I want a lawyer 1 I have done nothing wrong," he said. 
Then she tried to make him understand that many who may have done 
nothing wrong require a lawyer's aid. " And who is to pay him 1 " 
he asked. To this she replied, unfortunately, that there would be no 
need of thinking of that at once. "And I am to get further into 
debt ! " he said. " I am to put myself right before the world by 
incurring debts which I know I can never pay 1 When it has been 
a question of food for the children I have been weak, but I will not be 
weak in such a matter as this. I will have no lawyer." She did not 
regard this denial on his part as very material, though she would fain 
have followed Mr. Walker's advice had she been able ; but when, later 
in the day, he declared that the police should fetch him, then her 
spirit gave way. Early in the morning he seemed to assent to the 
expediency of going into SOverbridge on the Thursday, and it was not 
till after he had worked himself into a rage about the proposed 
attorney that he utterly refused to make the journey. During the 
whole day, however, his state was such as almost to break his wife's 
heart. He would do nothing. He would not go to the school, nor 
even stir beyond the house-door. He would not open a book. He 
would not eat, nor would he even sit at table or say the accustc^ned 
grace when the scanty mid-day meal was placed upon the table. 
" Nothing is blessed to me,'' he said, when his wife pressed him to 
say the words for their child's sake. " Shall I say that I thank God 
when my heart is thankless ] Shall I serve my child by a lie ] " Then 
for hours he sat in the same position, in the old arm-chair, hanging 
over the fire speechless, sleepless, thinking ever, as she weU knew, of 
the injustice of the world. She hardly dared to speak to him, so great 
was the bitterness of his words when he was goaded to reply. At 

VOL. I. p 

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last, late in the evening, feeling that it would be her duty to send in 
to Mr. Walker early on the following morning, she laid her hand gently 
on his shoulder and asked him for his promise. " I may tell Mr. Walker 
that you will be there on Thursday]" 

" No," he said, shouting at her. " No. I will have no such message 
sent." She started back, trembling. Not that she was accustomed to 
tremble at his ways, or to show that she feared him in his paroxysms, 
but that his voice had been louder than she had before known it. " I 
will hold no intercourse with them at Silverbridge in this matter. Do 
you hear me, Mary ? " 

" I hear you, Josiah ; but I must keep my word to Mr. Walker. I 
. promised that I would send to him." 

" Tell him, then, that I will not stir a foot out of this house on 
Thursday, of my own accord. On Thursday I shall be here ; and here 
I will remain all day, — unless they take me hence by force." 
__ " But, Josiah " 

" Will you obey me, or shall I walk into Silverbridge myself and 
tell the man that I will not come to him ? " Then he arose from his 
chair and stretched forth his hand to his hat as though he was going 
forth immediately, on his way to Silverbridge. The night was now 
pitch dark, and the rain was falling, and abroad he would encounter 
all the severity of the pitiless winter. Still it might have been better 
that he should have gone. The exercise and the fresh air, even the 
wet and the mud, would have served to bring back his mind to reason. 
But his wife thought of the misery of the journey, of his scanty 
clothing, of his worn boots, of the need there was to preserve the 
raiment which he wore ; and she remembered that he was fasting, — that 
he had eaten nothing since the morning, and that he was not fit to be 
alone. She stopped him, therefore, before he could reach the door. 

" Your bidding shall be done," she said, — " of course." 

" Tell them, then, that they must seek me here if they want me." 

" But, Josiah, think of the parish, — of the people who respect you. 
For their sakes let it not be said that you were taken away by 

"Was St. Paul not bound in prison 1 Did he think of what the 
people might see 1 " 

" If it were necessary, I would encourage you to bear it without a 

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"It is necessary, whether you murmur, or do not murmur. 
Murmur, indeed ! Why does not your voice ascend to heaven with 
one loud wail against the cruelty of man?" Then he went forth from 
the room into an empty chamber on the other side of the passage ; and 
his wife, when she followed him there after a few minutes, found him 
on his knees, with his forehead against the floor, and with his hands 
clutching at the scanty hairs of his head. Often before had she seen 
him so, on the same spot, half grovelling, half prostrate in prayer, 
reviling in his agony all things around him, — nay, nearly all things 
above him, — and yet striving to reconcile himself to his Creator by the 
humiliation of confession. 

It might be better with him now if only he could bring himself to 
some softness of heart. Softly she closed the door, and placing the 
candle on the mantel-shelf, softly she knelt beside him, and softly 
touched his hands with hers. He did not stir nor utter a word, but 
seemed to clutch at his thin locks more violently than before. Then 
she kneeling there, aloud, but with low voice, with her thin hands 
clasped, uttered a prayer in which she asked her God to remove from 
her husband the bitterness of that hour. He listened till she had 
finished, and then he rose slowly to his feet. " It is in vain," said he. 
" It is all in vain. It is all in vain." Then he returned back to the 
parlour, and seating himself again in the arm-chair, remained there 
without speaking till past midnight. At last, when she told him that 
she herself was very cold, and reminded him that for the last hour 
there had been no fire, still speechless, he went up with her to their 

Early on the following morning she contrived to let him know that 
she was about to send a neighbour's son over with a note to Mr. 
Walker, fearing to urge him further to change his mind ; but hoping 
thai he might express his purpose of doing so when he heard that 
the letter was to be sent ; but he took no notice whatever of her words. 
At this moment he was reading Greek with his daughter, or rather 
rebuking her because she could not be induced to read Greek. 

" Oh, papa," the poor girl said, " don't scold me now. I am so 
unhappy because of all this." 

"And am not I unhappy 1" he said, as he closed the book. "My 
God, what have I done against thee, that my lines should be cast in 
such terrible places % " 

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The letter was sent to Mr. Walker. " He knows Idmself to be 
innocent," said the poor wife, writing what best excuse she knew how 
to make, " and thinks that he should take no step himself in such a 
matter. He will not employ a lawyer, and he says that he should 
prefer that he should be sent for, if the law requires his presence at 
Silverbridge on Thursday." All this she wrote, as though she felt that 
she ought to employ a high tone in defending her husband's purpose ; 
but she broke down altogether in the few words of the postscript. 
" Indeed, indeed I have done what I could ! " Mr. Walker understood 
it all, both the high tone and the subsequent fall. 

On the Thursday morning, at about ten o'clock, a fly stopped at 
the gate of the Hogglestock Parsonage, and out of it there came two 
men. One was dressed in ordinary black clothes, and seemed from 
his bearing to be a respectable man of the middle class of life. He 
was, however, the superintendent of police for the Silverbridge district. 
The other man Was a policeman, pure and simple, with the helmet- 
looking hat and all the ordinary half-military and wholly disagreeable 
outward adjuncts of the profession. "Wilkins," said the superin- 
tendent, " likely enough I shall want you, for they tell me the gent 
is uncommon strange. But if I don't call you when I come out, just 
open the door like a servant, and mount up on the box when we're in. 
And don't speak nor say nothing." Then the senior policeman entered 
the house. 

He found Mrs. Crawley sitting in the parlour with her bonnet and 
shawl on, and Mr. Crawley in the arm-chair, leaning over the fire. " I 
suppose we had better go with you," said Mrs. Crawley directly the 
door was opened; for of course she had seen the arrival of the fly from 
the window. 

" The gentleman had better come with us if he'll be so kind," said 
Thompson. " I've brought a close carriage for him." 

" But I may go with him % " said the wife, with frightened voice. 
'I may accompany my husband. He is not well, sir, and wants 

Thompson thought about it for a moment before he spoke. There 
was room in the fly for only two, or if for three, still he knew his place 
better than to thrust himself inside together with his prisoner and his 
prisoner's wife. He had been specially asked by Mr. Walker to be 
very civil. Only one could sit on the box with the driver, and if the 

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request was conceded the poor policeman must walk back. The walk, 
however, would not kill the policeman. "All right, ma*am," said 
Thompson ; — " that is, if the gentleman will just pass his word not 
to get out till I ask him." 

" He will not ! He will not ! " said Mrs. Crawley. 

" I will pass my word for nothing," said Mr. Crawley. 

Upon hearing this, Thompson assumed a very long face, and shook 
his head as he turned his eyes first towards the husband and then 
towards the wife, and shrugged his shoulders, and compressing his lips, 
blew out his breath, as though in this way he might blow off some of 
the mingled sorrow and indignation with which the gentleman's words 
afflicted him. 

Mrs. Crawley rose and came close to him. "You may take my 
word for it, he will not stir. You may indeed. He thinks it incum- 
bent on him not to give any undertaking himself, because he feels him- 
self to be so harshly used." 

" I don*t know about harshness," said Thompson, brimling up. "A 
close carriage brought and " 

" I win walk. K I am made to go, I will walk," shouted Mr. 

"I did not allude to you, — or to Mr. Walker," said the poor 
wife. "T know you have been most kind. I meant the harshness 
of the circumstances. Of course he is innocent, and you must feel 
for him." 

"Yes, I feel for him, and for you too, ma'am." 

" That is all I meant. He knows his own innocence, and therefore 
he is unwilling to give way in anything." 

" Of course he knows hisself , that's certain. But he'd better come 
in the carriage if only because of the dirt and slush." 

" He will go in the carriage ; and I will go with him. There will 
be room there for you, sir." 

Thompson looked up at the rain, and told himself that it was very 
cold. Then he remembered Mr. Walker's injunction, and bethought 
himself that Mrs. Crawley, in spite of her poverty, was a lady. 
He conceived even unconsciously the idea that something was due 
to her because of her poverty. " I'll go with the driver," said he, 
" but he'll only give hisself a deal of trouble if he attempts to get 

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" He won't ; he won't," said Mrs. Crawley. " And I thank you with 
all my heart." 

" Come along, then," said Thompson. 

She went up to her husband, hat in hand, and looking round to see 
that she was not watched, put the hat on his head, and then lifted him 
as it were from his chair. He did not refuse to be led, and allowing 
her to tiirow round his shoulders the old cloak which was hanging 
in the passage he passed out, and was the first to seat himself 
in the Silverbridge fly. His wife followed him, and did not hear the 
blandishments with which Thompson instructed his myrmidon to 
follow through the mud on foot. Slowly they mad« their way through 
the lanes, and it was nearly twelve when the fly was driven into the 
yard of the " George and Vulture " at Silverbridge. 

Silverbridge, though it was blessed with a mayor and corporation, 
and was blessed also with a Member of Parliament all to itself, was 
not blessed with any court-house. The magistrates were therefore 
compelled to sit in the big room at the " Greorge and Vulture," in which 
the county baUs were celebrated, and the meeting of the West 
Barsetshire freemasons was held. That part of the country was, 
no doubt, very much ashamed of its backwardness in this respect, but 
as yet nothing had been done to remedy the eviL Thompson and his 
fly were therefore driven into the yard of the Inn, and Mr. and 
Mrs. Crawley were ushered by him up into a little bed-chamber close 
adjoining to the big room in which the magistrates were already assem- 
ble!. "There's a bit of fire here," said Thompson, "and you can 
make yourselves a little warm." He himself was shivering with the 
cold. " When the gents is ready in there, Til just come and fetch 

" I may go in with him % " said Mrs. Crawley. 

" I'U have a chair for you at the end of the table, just nigh to 
him," said Thompson. "You can slip into it and say nothing to 
nobody." Then he left them and went away to the magistrates. 

Mr. Crawley had not spoken a word since he had entered the 
vehicle. Nor had she said much to him, but had sat with him holding 
his hand in hers. Now he spoke toiler, — " Where is it that we are % " 
he asked. 

" At Silverbridge dearest." 

" But what is this chamber 1 And why are we here % " 

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" We are to wait here till the magistrates are ready. They are in 
the next room." 

"But this is the Inn r' 

" Yes, dear, it is the Inn." 

" And I see crowds of people ahont." There were crowas of people 
about. There had been men in the yard, and others standing about 
on ttie stairs, and the public room was full of men who were curious to 
see the clergyman who had stolen twenty pounds, and to hear what would 
be the result of the case before the magistrates. He must be committed ; 
so, at least, said everybody ; but then there would be the question of 
bail. Would the magistrates let him out on bail, and who would be 
the bailsmen 1 " Why are the people here ] " said Mr. Crawley. 

" I suppose it is the custom when the magistrates are sitting," said 
his wife. 

"They have come to see the degradation of a clergyman," said he; 
— "and they will not be disappointed." 

" Nothii^ can degrade but guilt," said his wife. 

" Yes, — misfortune can degrade, and poverty. A man is degraded 
when the cares of the world press so heavily upon him that he cannot 
rouse himself. They have come to look at me as though I were a 
hunted beast." 

" It is but their custom always on such days." 

" They have not always a clergyman before them as a criminal." 
Then he was silent for a while, while she was chafing his cold hands. 
" Would that I were dead, before they had brought me to this ! 
Would that I were dead ! " 

" Is it not right, dear, that we should all bear what He sends us ? " 

" Would that I were dead ! " he repeated. " The load is too heavy 
for me to bear, and I would that I were dead ! " 

The time seemed to be very long before Thompson returned and 
asked them to accompany him into the big room. When he did 
so, Mr. Crawley grasped hold of his chair as though he had resolved 
that he would -not go. But his wife whispered a word to him, and he 
obeyed her. " He will follow me," she said to the policeman. And in 
that way they went from the small room into the large one. Thompson 
went first; Mrs. Crawley with her veil down came next; and the 
wretched man followed his wife, with his eyes fixed upon the ground 
and his hands clasped together upon his breast. He could at first 

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have seen nothing, and could hardly have known where he was when 
they placed him in a chair. She, with a better courage, contrived to 
look round through her veil, and saw that there was a long board or 
table covered with green cloth, and that six or seven gentlemen were 
sitting at one end of it, while there seemed to be a crowd standing 
along the sides and about the room. Her husband was seated at the 
other end of the table, near the comer, and round the corner, — so that 
she might be close to him, — her chair had been placed. On the other 
side of him there was another chair, now empty, intended for any- 
professional gentleman whom he might choose to employ. 

There were fiYQ magistrates sitting there. Lord Lufton, from 
Framley, was in the chair;— a handsome man, still young, who was 
very popular in the county. The cheque which had been cashed had 
borne his signature, and he had consequently expressed his intention 
of not sitting at the board ; but Mr. Walker, desirous of having him 
there, had overruled him, showing him that the loss was not his loss* 
The cheque, if stolen, had not been stolen from him. He was not the 
prosecutor. " No, by Jove," said Lord Lufton; " if I could quash the 
whole thing, I*d do it at once ! " 

" You can't do that, my lord, but you may help us at the board," 
said Mr. Walker. 

Then there was the Hon. George De Courcy, Lord De Courcy's 
brother, from Castle Courcy. Lord De Courcy did not live in the 
county, but his brother did so, and endeavoured to maintain the glory 
of the family by the discretion of his conduct. He was not, perhaps, 
among the wisest of men, but he did very well as a country magistrate, 
holding his tongue, keeping his eyes open, and, on such occasions as 
this, obeying Mr. Walker in all things. Dr. Tempest was also there, 
the rector of the parish,* he being both magistrate and clergyman. 
There were many in Silverbridge who declared that Dr. Tempest would 
have done far better to stay away when a brother clergyman was thus 
to be brought before the bench ; but it had been long since Dr. Tempest 
had cared what was said about him in Silverbridge. He had become 
so accustomed to the life he led as to like to be disliked, and to be 
enamoured of unpopularity. So when Mr. Walker had ventured to 
suggest to him that, perhaps, he might not choose to be there, he had 
laughed Mr. Walker to scorn. " Of course I shall be there," he said, 

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" I am interested in the case, — ^very much interested. Of course I 
shall he there." And had not Lord Lufton heen present he would have 
made himself more conspicuous hy taking the chair. Mr. Fothergill 
was the fourth. Mr. Fothergill was man of husiness to the Duke of 
Omnium, who was the great owner of property in and ahout Silver- 
bridge, and he was the most active magistrate in that part of 
the county. He was a sharp man, and not at all likely to have any 
predisposition in favour of a clergyman. The fifth was Dr. Thome, 
of Chaldicotes, a gentleman whose name has been already men- 
tioned in these pages. He had been for many years a medical man 
practising in a little village in the further end of the county ; but it had 
come to be his fate, late in life, to marry a great heiress, with whose 
money the ancient house and domain of Chaldicotes had heen purchased 
from the Sowerhys. Since then Dr. Thorne had done his duty well as 
a country gentleman, — not, however, without some little want of 
smoothness between him and the duke's people. 

Chaldicotes lay next to the duke's territory, and the duke had 
wished to huy Chaldicotes. When Chaldicotes slipped through the 
duke's fingers and went into the hands of Dr. Thome, — or of 
Dr. Thome's wife, — ^the duke had been very angry with Mr. Fother- 
gill. Hence it had come to pass that there had not always heen 
smoothness between the duke's people and the Chaldicotes people. It 
was now rumoured that Dr. Thorne intended to stand for the county 
on the next vacancy, and that did not tend to make things smoother. 
On the right hand of Lord Lufton sat Lord George and Mr. Fo'ther- 
giU, and beyond Mr. Fothergill sat Mr. Walker, and beyond Mr. Walker 
sat Mr. Walker's clerk. On the left hand of the chairman were Dr. 
Tempest and Dr. Thome, and a little lower down was Mr. Zachary 
Winthrop, who held the situation of clerk to the magistrates. Many 
people in Silverbridge said that this was all wrong, as Mr. Winthrop 
was partner with Mr. Walker, who was always employed before the 
magistrates if there was any employment going for an attorney. For 
this, however, Mr. Walker cared very little. He had so much of 
his own way in Silverbridge, that he was supposed to care nothing for 

There were many other gentlemen in the room, and some who knew 
Mr. Crawley with more or less intimacy. He, however, took notice or 

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no one, and when one friend, who had really known him well, came np 
behind and spoke to him gently leaning over hia chair, the poor man 
hardly recognized his friend. 

*^ I'm sure your husband won't forget me," said Mr, Eobarts, the 
clergyman of Framley, as he gave his h^d to that lady across the back 
of Mr. Crawley's chair. 

"No, Mr. Robarts, he does not forget you. But you must excuse 
him if at this moment he is not (^uite himself. It is a trying situation 
for a clergyman." 

" I can understand all that ; but I'll tell you why I have come. I 
suppose this inquiry will finish the whole affair and clear up whatever 
may be the difficulty. But should it not do so, it may be just possible, 
Mrs. Crawley, that something may be said about bail. I don't under- 
stand much about it, and I daresay you do not either ; but if there 
should be anything of that sort, let Mr. Crawley name me. A brother 
clergyman will be best, and I'll have some other gentleman with me." 
Then he left her, not waiting for any answer. 

At the same time there was a conversation going on between 
Mr. Walker and another attorney standing behind him, Mr. Mason. 
"I'll go to him," said Walker, "and try to arrange it." So 
Mr. Walker seated himself in the empty chair beside Mr. Crawley, 
and endeavoured to explain to the wretched man, that he would do 
well to allow Mr. Mason to assist him Mr. Crawley seemed to listen 
to all that was said, and then turned upon the speaker sharply : *' I 
will "have no one to assist me," he said so loudly that every one in the 
room heard the words. " I am innocent. Why should I want assist- 
ance] Nor have I money to pay for it " Mr. Mason made a quick 
movement forward, intending to explain that that consideration need 
offer no impediment, but was stopped by further speech from Mr. Crawley. 
" I will have no one to help me," said he, standing upright, and for the 
first time removing his hat from his head. '^ Go on, and do what it is 
you have to do." After that he did not sit down tUl the proceedings 
were nearly over, though he was invited more than once by Lord 
Lufton to do so. 

We need not go through all the evidence that was brought to bear 
upon the question. It was proved that money for the cheque was 
paid to Mr. Crawley's messenger, and that this money was given to 
Mr. Crawley. When there occurred some little delay in the chain of 

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evidence necessary to show that Mr. Crawley had signed and sent the 
cheque and got the money, he became impatient. "Why do you 
trouble the man % " he said. " I had the cheque, and I sent him. I 
got the money. Has any one denied it, that you should strive to drive 
a poor man like that beyond his wits ] " Then Mr. Soames and the 
manager of the bank showed what inquiry had been made as soon as 
the cheque came back from the London bank ; how at first they had 
both thought that Mr. Crawley could of course explain the matter, and 
how he had explained it by a statement which was manifestly untrue. 
Then there was evidence to prove that the cheque could not have been 
paid to him by Mr. Soames, and as this was given, Mr. Crawley shook 
his head and again became impatient. " I erred in that," he exclaimed. 
** Of course I erred. In my haste I thought it was so, and in my haste 
I said so. I am not good at reckoning money and remembering sums. 
But I saw that I had been wrong when my error was shown to me, and 
I acknowledged at once that I had been wrong." 

Up to this point he had behaved not only with so much spirit, but 
with so much reason, that his wife began to hope that the importance 
of the occasion had brought back the clearness of his mind, and that 
he would, even now, be able to place himself right as the inquiry went 
on. Then it was explained that Mr. Crawley had stated that the 
cheque had been given to him by Dean Arabin, as soon as it was shown 
that it could not have been given to him by Mr. Soames. In reference 
to this, Mr. Walker was obliged to explain that application had been 
made to the dean, who was abroad, and that the dean had stated that 
he had given fifty pounds to his friend. Mr. Walker explained also 
that the very notes of which this fifty pounds had consisted had been 
traced back to Mr. Crawley, and that they had had no connection with 
the cheque or with the money which had been given for the cheque at 
the bank. 

Mr. Soames stated that he had lost the cheque with a pocket-book ; 
that he had certainly lost it on the day on which he had called on 
Mr. Crawley at Hogglestock ; and that he missed his poeket-bDok on 
Ms journey back from Hogglestock to Barchester. At the moment 
of missing it he remembered that he had taken the book out from his 
pocket in Mr. Crawley's room, and at that moment he had not doubted 
but that he had left it in Mr. Crawley's house. He had written and 
sent to Mr. Crawley to inquire, but had been assured that nothing had 

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been found. There had been no other property of value in the pocket 
book, — nothing but a few visiting cards and a memorandum, and he 
had therefore stopped the cheque at the London bank, and thought no 
more about it. 

Mr. Crawley was then asked to explain in what way he came pos- 
sessed of the cheque. The question was first put by Lord Lufton ; but 
. it soon fell into Mr. Walker's hands, who certainly asked it with all the 
kindness with which such an inquiry could be mewie. Could Mr. Crawley 
at all remember by what means that bit of paper had come into his 
possession, or how long he had had it ? He answered the last question 
first. " It had been with him for months." And why had he kept it % 
He looked round the room sternly, almost savagely, before he answered, 
fixing his eyes for a moment upon almost every face around him as he 
did so. Then he spoke. " I was driven by shame to keep it ; — and 
then by shame to use it." That this statement was true, no one in the 
room doubted. 

' And then the other question was pressed upon him ; and he lifted 
up his hands, and raised his voice, and swore by the Saviour in whom 
he trusted, that he knew not from whence the money had come to him. 
Why then had he said that it had come from the dean % He had 
thought so. The dean had given him money, covered up, in an en- 
closure, " so that the touch of the coin might not £wid to my disgrace 
in taking his alms," said the wretched man, thus speaking openly and 
freely in his agony of the shame which he had striven so persistently to 
hide. He had not seen the dean's moneys as they had been given, 
and he had thought that the cheque had been with them. Beyond that 
he could tell them nothing. 

Then there was a conference between the magistrates and Mr. Walker, 
in which Mr. Walker submitted that the magistrates had no alternative 
but to commit the gentleman. To this Lord Lufton demurred, and 
with him Dr. Thome. 

" I believe, as I am sitting here," said Lord Lufton, ** that he has 
told the truth, and that he does not know any more than I do from 
whence the cheque came." 

** I am quite sure he does not," said Dr. Thome. 

Lord George remarked that it was the " queerest go he had ever 
come across." Dr. Tempest merely shook his head. Mr. Fothergill 
pointed out that even supposing the gentleman's statement to be true, 

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it by no means went towards establishing the gentleman's innocence. 
The cheque had been traced to the gentleman's hands, and the gentle- 
man was bound to show how it had come into his possession. Even 
supposing that the gentleman had found the cheque in his house, which 
was likely enough, he was not thereby justified in changing it, and 
applying the proceeds to his own purposes. Mr. Walker told them 
that Mr. Fothergill was right, and that the only excuse to be made for 
Mr. Crawley was that he was out of his senses. 

" I don't see it," said Lord Luffcon. " I might have a lot of paper 
money by me, and not know from Adam where I got it." 

" But you would have to show where you got it, my lord, when 
inquiry was made," said Mr. Fothergill. 

Lord Lufton, who was not particularly fond of Mr. Fothergill, and 
was very unwilling to be instructed by him in any of the duties of a 
magistrate, turned his back at once upon the duke's agent ; but within 
three minutes afterwards he had submitted to the same instructions 
from Mr. Walker. 

Mr. Crawley had again seated himself, and during this period of the 
affair was leaning over the table with his face buried on his Arms. 
Mrs. Crawley sat by his side, utterly impotent as to any assistance, 
just touching him with her hand, and waiting behind her veil till she 
should be made to understand what was the decision of the magistrates. 
This was at last communicated to her, — and to him, — in a whisper by 
Mr. Walker. Mr. Crawley must understand that he was committed to 
take his trial at Barchester, at the next assizes, which would be held in 
April, but that bail would be taken ; — his own bail in five hundred 
poimds, and that of two others in two hundred and fifty pounds each. 
And Mr. Walker explained further that he and the bailmen were ready, 
and that the bail-bond "was prepared. The bailmen were to be the 
Rev. Mr. Robarts, and Major Grantly. In five minutes the bond was 
signed and Mr. Crawley was at liberty to go away, a free man, — till the 
Barchester Assizes should come round in ApriL 

Of aU that was going on at this time Mr. Crawley knew little or 
nothing, and Mrs. Crawley did not know much. She did say a word 
of thanks to Mr. Robarts, and begged that the same might be said to — 
the other gentleman. If she had heard the major's name she did not 
remember ii. Then they were led out back into the bed-room, where 
Mrs. Walker was found, anxious to do something, if she only knew 

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-what, to comfort the wretched husband and the wretched wife. But 
what comfort or consolation could there he within their reach 1 There 
was tea made ready for them, and sandwiches cut from the Inn larder. 
And there was eherry in the Inn decanter. But no such comfort as 
that was possible for either of them. 

■ They were taken home again in the fly, returning without the escort 
of Mr. Thompson, and as they went some few words were spoken by 
Mrs. Crawley. " Josiah," she said, "there will be a way out of this, 
even yet, if you will only hold up your head and trust." 

" There is a way out of it," he said. " There is a way. There is 
but one way.'* When he had so spoken she said no more, but resolved 
that her eye should never be off him, no, — not for a moment. Then, 
when she had gotten him once more into that front parlour, she tlwew 
her arms round him and kissed him, 



The tidings of what had been done by the magistrates at their petty- 
sessions was communicated the same night to Grace Crawley by Miss 
Prettyman. Miss Anne Prettyman had heard the news within five 
minutes of the execution of the bail-bond, and had rushed to her sister 
with information as to the event. " They have found him guilty ; they 
have, indeed. They have convicted him, — or whatever it is, because 
he couldn't say where he got it." " You do not mean that they have 
sent him to prison 1 " " No ; — not to prison ; not as yet, that is. I 
don't understand it altogether ; but he's to be tried at the assizes. 
In the mean time he's to be out on bail. Major Grantly is to be the 
baU, — he and Mr. Robarts. That, I think, was very nice of him." It 
was undoubtedly the fact that Miss Anne Prettyman had received an 

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accession of pleasurable emotion when she learned that Mr. Crawley 
had not been sent away scathless, but had been conrlemned, as it were, 
to a public trial at the assizes. And yet she would have done anything 
in her power to save Grace Crawley, or even to save her father. And 
it must be explained that Miss Anne Prettyman was supposed to be 
specially efficient in teaching Roman history to her pupils, although 
she was so manifestly ignorant of the course of law in the country in 
which she lived. " Committed him," said Miss Prettyman, correcting 
her sister with scorn. "They have not convicted him. Had they 
convicted him, there could be no question of bail." " I don't know 
how all that is, Annabella, but at any rate Major Grantly is to be the 
bails-man, and there is to be another trial at Barchester." "There 
cannot be more than one trial in a criminal case," said Miss Prettyman, 
"unless the jury should disagree, or something of that kind. I 
suppose he has been committed, and that the trial will take place at 
the assizes." "Exactly ; — that's just it.'* Had Lord Lufton appeared 
as praetor, and had Thompson walked before him as lictor, carrying 
the fasces. Miss Anne would have known more about it. 

The sad tidings were not told to Grace till the evening. Mrs. Crawley, 
when the inquiry was over before the magistrates, would fain have had 
herself driven to the Miss Prettyman's school that she might see her 
daughter ; but she felt that to be impossible while her husband was in 
her charge. The father would of course have gone to his child, had 
the visit been suggested to him ; but that would have caused another 
terrible scene ; and the mother, considering it all in her mind, thought 
it better to abstain. Miss Prettyman did her best to make poor Grace 
think that the affair had gone so far favourably, — did her best, that is, 
without saying anything which her conscience told her to be false. "It 
is to be settled at the assizes in April," she said. 

" And in the mean time what will become of papa 1 " 

" Your papa will be at home, just as usual He must have some 
one to advise him. I dare say it would have been all over now if he 
would have employed an attorney." 
. " But it seems so hard that an attorney should be wanted." 

" My dear Grace, things in this world are hard." 

" But they are always harder for papa and mamma than for any- 
body else." In answer to this. Miss Prettyman made some remarks 
intended to be wise and kind at the same time. Grace, whose eyes 

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were laden with tears, made no immediate reply to this, hut reverted to 
her former statement, that she must go home. *' I cannot remain, Miss 
Prettyman ; I am so unhappy." 

" Will you be more happy at home ] " 

" I can hear it better there." 

The poor girl soon learned from the intended consolations of those 
around her, from the ill-considered kindnesses of the pupils, and from-^ 
words which fell from the servants, that her father had in fact been 
judged to be guilty as far as judgment had as yet gone. " They do 
say, miss, it's only because he hadn't a lawyer," said the housekeeper. 
And if men so kind as Lord Lufton and Mr. Walker had made him out 
to be guilty, what could be expected from a stern judge down from 
London, who would know nothing about her poor father and his 
peculiarities, and from twelve jurymen who would be shopkeepers out 
of Barchester. It would kill her father, and then it would kill her 
mother ; and after that it would kill her also. And there was no money 
in the house at home. She knew it well. She had been paid three 
pounds a month for her services at the school, and the money for the 
last two months had been sent to her^ mother. Yet, badly as she 
wanted anything that she might be able to earn, she knew that she 
could not go on teaching. It had come to be acknowledged by both the 
Miss Prettymans that any teaching on her part for the present was 
impossible. She would go home and perish with the rest of them. 
There was no room left for hope to her, or to any of her family. They 
had accused her father of being a common thief, — her father whom she 
knew to be so nobly honest, her father whom she believed to be among 
the most devoted of God's servants ! He was accused of a paltry thefU 
and the magistrates and lawyers and policemen among them had decided 
that the accusation was true ! How could she look the girls in the face 
after that, or attempt to hold her own among the teachers ! 

On the next morning there came the letter from Miss Lily Dale, and 
with that in her hand she again went to Miss Prettyman. She must go 
home, she said. She must at any rate see her mother. Could Miss Pretty- 
man be kind enough to send her home. I haven't sixpence to pay for 
anything," she said, bursting out into tears ; " and I haven't a right 
to ask for it." Then the statements which Miss Prettyman made in 
her eagerness to covei* this latter misfortune were decidedly false. There 
was so much money owing to Grace, she said j money for this, money 

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for that, money for anything or nothing ! Ten pounds wonld hardly 
clear the account. " Nobody owes me anything ; but if you'll lend me 
five shillings !'' said Grace in her agony. Mias Prettyman, aa-she 
made her way through this difficulty, thought of Major Grantly and his 
loYe. It would have been of no use, she knew. Had she brought them 
together on that Monday, Grace would have said nothing to him. 
Indeed such a meeting at such a time would hare been improper. But, 
regarding Major Grantly, as she did, in the light of a miUionnaire, — for 
tilie wealth of the archdeacon was notorious, — she could not but think it 
a pity that poor Grace should be begging for five shillings. " You need 
not at any rate trouble yourself about money, Grace," said Miss Pretty- 
man. *^ What is a pound or two more or less between you and me 1 
It is almost unkind of you to think about it. Is that letter in yonr 
hand anything for me to see, my dear 1 " Then Grace explained that 
she did not wish to show Miss Dale's letter, but that Miss Dale had 
asked her to go to Allington. " And you will go," said Miss Prettyman. 
" It will be the best thing for you, and the best thing for your mother." 

It was at last decided that Grace should go to her friend at 
AUington, and to Allington she went. She returned home for a day 
or two, and was persuaded by her mother to accept the invitation that 
had been given her. At Hogglestock, whUe she was there, new troubles 
came up, of which something shall shortly be told; but they were 
troubles in which Grace could give no assistance to her mothar^ and 
which, indeed, ^K»ugh they were in truth troubles, as will be seen, 
were so far beneficent that they stirred her father up to a certain action 
which was in itself salutary. " I think it will be better that you should 
be away, dearest," said the mother, who now, for the first time, heard 
plainly all that poor Grace had to tell about Major Grantly ; — Grace 
having, heretofore, barely spoken, in most ambiguous words, of Major 
Grantly as a gentleman whom she had met at Framley and whom she 
had described as being " very nice." 

In old days, long ago, Lucy Eobarts^ the present Lady Lufton, 
SLster of the Bev. Mark Eobarts the parson of Framley, had sojourned 
for a while under Mr. Crawley's roof at Hog^estock. Peculiax dreum- 
stances, which need not, perhaps, be told here, had given oceaMon lor . 
this visit She had then resolved, — for her future destiny had been 
known to her b^ore she left Mrs. Crawley's house, — that she would in;,^ 
coming days do much to befriend the family of her friend; but the . 

VOL. I. Q 

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doing of much had been very difl&cult. And the doing of anything had 
come to be very difficult through a certain indiscretion on Lord Luf ton's 
part. Lord Lufton had offered assistance, pecuniary assistance, to 
Mr. Crawley, which Mr. Crawley had rejected with outspoken anger. 
What was Lord Lufton to him that his lordship should dare to come to 
him with his paltry money in his hand? But after a while, Lady 
Lufton, exercising some cunning in the operations of her friendship, 
had persuaded her sister-in-law at the Framley parsonage to have Grace 
Crawley over there as a visitor, — and there she had been during the 
summer holidays previous to the commencement of our story. And 
there, at Framley,%he had become acquainted with Major Grantly, who 
was staying with Lord Lufton at Framley Court. She had then said 
something to her mother about Major Grantly, something ambiguous, 
something about his being " very nice," and the mother had thought 
how great was the pity that her daughter, who was " nice " too in her 
estimation, should have so few of those adjuncts to assist her which 
come from full pockets. She had thought no more about it then ; but 
now she felt herself constrained to think more. " I don*t quite under- 
stand why he should have come to Miss Prettyman on Monday," said 
Grace, " because he hardly knows her at all." 

" I suppose it was on business," said Mrs. Crawley. 

" No, mamma, it was not on business." 

* How can you tell, dear ? " 

" Because Miss Prettyman said it was, — it was — to ask after me. 
Oh, mamma, I must tell you. I know he did like me." 

" Did he ever say so to you, dearest] " 

"Yes, mamma." 

" And what did you tell him 1 " 

" I told him nothing, mamma." 

" And did he ask to see you on Monday 1 " 

" No, mamma ; I don't think he did. I think he understood it all 
too well, for I could not have spoken to him then." 

Mrs. Crawley pursued the cross-examination no further, but made 
up her mind that it would be better that her girl should be away from 
her wretched home during this period of her life. If it were written in 
the book of fate that one of her children should be exempted from the 
series of misfortunes which seemed to fall, one after another, almost as 
a matter of course, upon her husband, upon her, and upon her femily ; — 

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if so great good fortune were in store for her Grace as such a marriage 
as this which seemed to be so nearly ofifered to her, it might probably 
be well that Grace should be as little at home as possible. Mrs. Crawley 
had heard nothing but good of Major Grantly ; but she knew that the 
Grantlys were proud rich people, — ^who lived with their heads high up 
in the county, — and it could hardly be that a son of the archdeacon 
would like to take his bride direct from Hogglestock parsonage. 

It was settled that Grace should go to Allington as soon as a letter 
could be received from Miss Dale in return to Grace's note, and on the 
third morning after her arrival at home she started. None but they 
who have themselves been poor gentry, — gentry so poor as not to know 
how to raise a shilling, — can understand the peculiar bitterness of the 
trials which such poverty produces. The poverty of the normal poor 
does not approach it ; or, rather, the pangs arising from such poverty 
are altogether of a different sort. To be hungry and have no food, to 
be cold and have no fuel, to be threatened with distraint for one's few 
chairs and tables, and with the loss of the roof over one's head, — all 
these miseries, which, if they do not positively reach, are so frequently 
near to reaching the normal poor, are, no doubt, the severest of the 
trials to which humanity is subjected. They threaten life, — or, if not 
life, then liberty, — reducing the abject one to a choice between captivity 
and starvation. By hook or crook, the poor gentleman or poor lady, — 
let the one or the other be ever so poor, — does not often come to the 
last extremity of the workhouse. There are such cases, but they 
are exceptional. Mrs. Crawley, through all her sufferings, had never 
yet found her cupboard to be absohitely bare, or the bread-pan to be 
actually empty. But there are pangs to which, at the time, starvation 
itself would seem to be preferable. The angry eyes of unpaid trades- 
men, savage with an anger which one knows to be justifiable ; the 
taunt of the poor servant who wants her wages ; the gradual relinquish- 
ment of habits which the soft nurture of earlier, kinder years had 
made second nature ; the wan cheeks of the wife whose malady demands 
wine; the rags of the husband whose outward occupations demand 
decency; the neglected children, who are learning not to be the 
children of gentlefolk; and, worse than all, the alms and doles of 
half-generous friends, the waning pride, the pride that will not wane, 
the growing doubt whether it be not better to bow the head, and 
acknowledge to all the world that nothing; of the pride of station is left, 

G 2 

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— that tlie hand is open to receive and ready to touch the cap, that the 
fall from the upper to the lower level has been accomplished, — these 
are the pangs of poverty which drive the Crawieys of the world to the 
frequent entertaining of that idea of the bare bodkin. It was settled 
that Grace should go to Allington ; — but how about her clothes ? And 
then, "whence was to come the price of her journey] 

" I don't think they'll mind about my being shabby at Allington. 
They live very quietly there." 

" But you say that Miss Dale is so very nice in all her ways." 

" Lily is very nice, mamma ; but I shan't mind her so much as her 
mother, because she knows it all. I have told her everything." 

" But you have given me all your money, defirest." 

" Miss Prettyman told me I was to come to her," said Grace, who 
had already taken some • smill sum from the schoolmistress, which at 
once had gone into her mother's pocket, and into household purposes. 
" She said I should be sure to go to Allington, and that of course I 
should go to her, as I must pass through Silverbridge." 

" I hope papa will not ask about it," said Mrs. Crawley. Luckily 
papa did not ask about it, being at the moment occupied much with 
other thoughts and other troubles, and Grace was allowed to return by 
Silverbridge, and to take what was needed from Miss Prettyman. Who 
can tell of the mending and patching, of the weary wearing midnight 
hours of needle-work which were accomplished before the poor girl went, 
so that she might not reach her friend's house in actual rags 1 And when 
the work was ended, wlmt was there to show for it? I do not think 
. that the idea of the bare bodkin, as regarded herself, ever flitted across 
Mrs. Crawley's brain, — ^she being one of those who are very strong to 
endure ; but it must have occurred to her very often that the repose of 
the grave is sweet, and that there cometh after death a levelling and 
making even of things, which would at last cure all her evils. 

Grace no doubt looked forward to a levelling and making even of 
things, — or perhaps even to something more prosperous than that which 
should come to her relief on this side of the grave. She could not but 
have high hopes in regard to her future destiny. Although, as has 
been said, she understood no more than she ought to have understood 
from Miss Prettyman's account of the conversation with Major Grantly, 
still, innocent as she was, she had understood much. She knew that 
the man loved her, and she knew also that she loved the man. She 

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thoroughly comprehended that the present could be to her no time for 
listening to speeches of love, or for giving kind answers ; but still I 
think that die did look for relief on this side of the gi*ave. 

"Tut, tut," said Miss Prettyman as Grace in vain tried to conceal 
her tears up in the private sanctum. " You ought to know me by this 
time, and to have learned that I can understand things." The tears 
had flow^ in return not only for the five gold sovereigns which Miss -€4. 
Prettyman had pressed into her hand, but on account of the prettiest, 
soft, grey merino frock that ever charmed a girl's eye. " I should like 
to know how many girls I have given dresses «to when they have been 
going out visiting. Law, my dear; they take them, many of them, 
from us old maids, almost as if we were only paying our debts in giving 
them." And then Miss Anne gave her a cloth cloak, very warm, with 
pretty buttons and gimp trimmings, — just such a cloak as any girl might 
like to wear who thought that she would be seen out walking by her 
M%jor Grantly on a Christmas morning. Grace Crawley did not expect 
to be seen out walking by her Major Grantly, but nevertheless she liked 
the cloak. By the power of her practical wiU, and by her true sympathy, 
the elder Miss Prettyman had for a while conquered the annoyance 
which^ on Grace's part, was attached to the receiving of gifts, by the 
consciousness of her poverty ; and when Miss Anne, with some pride 
in the tone of her voice, expressed a hope that Grace would think the 
cloak pretty, Grace put her arms pleasantly round her friend's neck, and 
declared that it was very pretty, — the prettiest cloak in all the world ! 

Grace was met at the Guestwick railway-station by her friend Lilian 
Dale, and was driven over to AUington in a pony carriage belonging to 
Lilian's uncle, the squire of the parish. I think she will be excused in 
having put on her new cloak, not so much because of the cold as with 
a view of making the best of herself before Mrs. Dale. And yet she 
knew that Mrs. Dale would know all the circumstances of her poverty, 
and was very glad that it should be so. " I am so glad that you have 
come, dear," said Lily. " It will be such a comfort." 

" I am sure you are very good," said Grace. 

^* And mamma is so glad. From the moment that we both talked 
ourselves into eagerness about it, — while I was writing my letter, you 
know, we resolved that it must be so." 

" I'm afraid I shall be a great trouble to Mrs. Dale." 

"A trouble to mamma! Indeed you will not. You shall be a 

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trouble to no one but me. I will have all the trouble myself, and the 
labour I delight in shall physic my pain." 

Grace Crawley could not during the journey be at home and at ease 
even with her friend Lily. She was going to a strange house under 
strange circumstances. Her father had not indeed been tried and found 
guilty of theft, but the charge of theft had been made against him, and 
the magistrates before whom it had been made had thought that the 
charge was true. Grace knew that all the local newspapers had told 
the story, and was of course aware that Mrs. Dale would have heard it. 
Her own mind was full of it, and though she dreaded to speak of it, 
yet she could not be silent. Miss Dale, who understood much of this, 
endeavoured to talk her friend into easiness ; but she feared to begin 
upon the one subject, and before the drive was over they were, both of 
them, too cold for much conversation. "There's mamma," said Miss 
Dale as they drove up, turning out of the street of the village to the 
door of Mrs. Dale's house. " She always knows, by instinct, when I 
am coming. You must understand, now that you are among us, that 
mamma and I are not mother and daughter, but two loving old ladies, 
living together in peace and harmony. We do have our quarrels, — 
whether the chicken shall be roast or boiled, but never anything beyond 
that. ' Mamma, here is Grace, starved to death ; and she says if you 
don't give her some tea she will go back at once." 

"I will give her some tea," said Mrs. Dale. 

" And I am worse than she is, because I've been driving. It's all up 
with Bertram and Mr. Green for the next week at least. It is freezing 
as hard as it can freeze, and they might as well try to hunt in Lapland 
as here." 

" They'll console themselves with skating," said Mrs. Dale. 

"Have you ever observed, Grace," said Miss Dale, "how much 
amusement gentlemen require, and how imperative it is that some other 
game should be provided when one game fails % " 

" Not particularly," said Grace. 

" Oh, but it is so. !N'ow, with women, it is supposed that they can 
amuse themselves or live without amusement. Once or twice in a year, 
perhaps, something is done for them. There is an arrow-shooting party, 
or a ball, or a picnic. But the catering for men's sport is never-ending, 
and is always paramount to everything else. And yet the pet game 
of the day never goes off properly. In partridge time, the partridges 

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are wild, and won't come to be killed. In hunting time the foxes won't 
run straight, — the wretches. They show no spirit, and wiU take to 
ground to save their brushes. Then comes a nipping frost, and skating 
is proclaimed ; but the ice is always rough, and the woodcocks have 
deserted the country. And as for salmon ! When the summer comes 
round I do really believe that they suffer a great deal about the salmon. 
I'm sure they never catch any. So they go back to their clubs, and their 
cards, and their billiards, and abuse their cooks and blackball their 
friends. That's about it, mamma ; is it not % " 

" You know more about it than I do, my dear." 

"Because I have to listen to Bertram, as you never will do. 
"We've got such a Mr. Green down here, Grace. He's such a duck of a 
man, — such top-boots and all the rest of it. And yet they whisper to 
me that he doesn't ride always to hounds. And to see him play 
billiards is beautiful, only he never can make a stroke. I hope you play 
billiards, Grace, because uncle Christopher 1ms just had a new table 
put up." 

" I never saw a billiard-table yet," said Grace. 

" Then Mr. Green shall teach you. He'll do anything that you ask 
him. If you don't approve the colour of the ball, he'll go to London at once 
to get you another one. Only you must be very careful about saying 
that you like anything before him, as he'll be sure to have it for you 
the next day. Mamma happened to say that she wanted a fourpenny 
postage-stamp, and he walked off to Guestwick to get it for her 
instantly, although it was lunch-time." 

** He did nothing of the kind, Lily," said her mother. " He was 
going to Guestwick, and was very good-natured, and brought me back 
a postage-stamp that I wanted." 

" Of course he's good-natured; I know that. And there's my cousin 
Bertram. He's Captain Dale, you know. But he prefers to be called 
Mr. Dale, because he has left the army, and has set up as junior 
equire of the parish. Uncle Christopher is the real squire; only 
Bertram does all the work. And now you know all about us. I'm 
afraid you'll find us dull enough, — unless you can take a fancy to Mr. 

" Does Mr. Green live here 1 " asked Grace. 

" No ; he does not live here. I never heard of his living anywhere. 
He was something once, but I don't know what : and I don't think 

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he's anything now in particnlar. But he's Bertram's friend, and like 
most men, as one sees them, he never has much to do. Does Major 
Grantly ever go forth to fight his country's hattles 1 " This last question 
she asked in a low whisper, so that the words did not reach her mother. 
Grace blushed up to her eyes, however, as she answered, — 

" I think that Major Grantly has left the army." 

"We shall get her round in a day or two, mamma," said Lily Dale 
to her mother that night. " I'm sure it will be the best thing to force 
her to talk of her troubles." 

" I would not use too much force, my dear." 

" Things are better when they're talked about. I'm sure they are. 
^nd it will be good to make her accustomed to speak of Major Grantly. 
From what Mary Walker tells me, he certainly means it. And if so, 
she should be ready for it when it comes." 

" Do not make her ready for what may never come." 

" No, mamma; but she is at present such a. child that she knows 
nothing of her own powers. She should be made to understand that 
it is possible that even a Major Grantly may think himself fortunate in 
being allowed to love her." 

" I should leave all that to Nature, if I were you," said Mrs. Dale. 



Lord Lufton, as he drove home to Framley after the meeting of the 
magistrates at Silverbridge, discussed the matter with his brother-in- 
law, Mark Robarts, the clergyman. Lord Lufton was driving a dog- 
cart, and went along the road at the rate of twelve miles an hour. ** I'll 
tell you what it is, Mark," he said, ** that man is innocent ; but if he 
won't employ lawyers at his trial, the jury wiU find him guilty." 

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" I don't know what to think about it," said the clergyman. 

" Were you in the room when he protested so vehemently that he 
didn*t know where he got the money ] " 

" I was in the room all the time." 

" And did you not believe him when he said that % " 

« Yes,— I think I did." 

"Anybody must have believed him, — except old Tempest, who 
never believes anybody, and Fothergill, who always suspects everybody. 
The truth is, that he had found the cheque and put it by, and did not 
remember anything about it." 

" But, Lufton, surely that would amount to stealing it." 

** Yes, if it wasn't that he is such a poor, cracked, crazy creature, 
with his mind all abroad. I think Soames did drop his book in his 
house. I'm sure Soames would not say so unless he was quite confident. 
Somebody has picked it up, and in some way the cheque has got into 
Crawley's hand. Then he has locked it up and has forgotten all about 
it ; and when that butcher threatened him, he has put his hand upon 
it) and he has thought, or believed, that it had come from Soames or 
&om the dean, — or from heaven, if you will. When a man is so crazy 
as that, you can't judge of him as you do of others." 

" But a jury must judge of him as it would of others." 

" And therefore there should be a lawyer to tell the jury what to 
do. They should have somebody up out of the parish to show that he 
is beside himself half his time. His wife would be the best person, 
only it would be hard lines on her.'* 

" Yery hard. And after all he would only escape by being shown 
to be mad." 

" And he is mad." 

" Mrs. Proudie would come upon him in such a case as that, and 
sequester his living." 

"And what will Mrs. Proudie do when he's a convicted thief 1 
Simply unfrock him, and take away his living altogether. Nothing on 
earth should induce me to find him guilty if I were on a jury." 

" But you have committed him." 

"Yes, — I've been one, at least, in doing so. I simply did what 
Walker told us we must do. A magistrate is not left to himself as a 
juryman is. I'd eat the biggest pair of boots in Barchester before I 
found him guilty. T say, Mark, you must talk it over with the women, 

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and see what can be done for them. Lucy tells me that they're so poor, 
that if they have bread to eat, it's as much as they have." 

On this evening Archdeacon Grantly and his wife dined and slept at 
Framley Court, there having been a very long family friendship between 
old Lady Lufton and the Grantlys, and Dr. Thorne, with his wife> 
from Chaldicotes, also dined at Framley. There was also there another 
clergyman frotn Barchester, Mr. Champion, one of the prebendaries of 
the cathedral. There were only three now who had houses in the city 
since the retrenchments of the Ecclesiastical Comnussion had come into 
full force., And this Mr. Champion was dear to the Dowager Lady 
Lufton, because he carried on worthily the clerical war against the 
bishop which had raged in Barsetshire ever since Dr. Proudie had come 
there, — which war old Lady Lufton, good and pious and charitable as 
she was, considered that she was bound to keep up, even to the knife, 
till Dr. Proudie and all his satellites should have been banished into 
outer darkness. As the light of the Proudies still shone brightly, it was 
probable that poor old Lady Lufton might die before her battle was 
accomplished. She often said that it would be so, but when so saying, 
always expressed a wish that the fight might be carried on after her 
death. " I shall never, never rest in my grave," she had once said to 
the archdeacon, " while that woman sits in your father's palace." For 
the archdeacon's father had been Bishop of Barchester before Dr. 
Proudie. What mode of getting rid of the bishop or his wife Lady 
Lufton proposed to herself, I am unable to say ; but I think she lived 
in hopes that in some way it might be done. If only the bishop could 
Jiave been found to have stolen a cheque for twenty pounds instead of 
poor Mr. Crawley, Lady Lufton would, I think, have been satisfied. 

In the course of these battles Framley Court would sometimes 
assume a clerical aspect, — have a prevailing hue, as it were, of black ^ 
coats, which was not altogether to the taste of Lord Lufton, and as to 
which he would make complaint to his wife, and to Mark Eobarts, 
himself a clergyman. " There's more of this than I can stand," he'd 
say to the latter. " There's a deuced deal more of it than you like 
yourself, I know." 

" It's not for me to like or dislike. It's a great thing having your 
mother in the parish." 

" That's all very weU ; and of course she'll do as she likes. She may 
ask whom she pleases here, and I shan't interfere. It's the same as 

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though it was her own house. But I shall take Lucy to Lufton." 
Now Lord Lufton had heen building his house at Lufton for the last 
seven years, and it was not yet finished, — or nearly finished, if all that 
his wife and mother said was true. And if they could have their way, 
it never would he finished. And so, in order that Lord Lufton might 
not be actually driven away by the turmoils (^ ecclesiastical contest, 
the younger Lady Lufton would endeavour to moderate both the wrath 
and the zeal of the elder one, and would struggle against the coming 
clergymen. On this day, however, three sat at the board at FranJey, 
and Lady Lufton, in her justification to her son, swore that the 
invitation had been given by her daughter-in-law. " You know, my 
dear,'* the dowager said to Lord Lufton, " something must be done for 
these poor Crawleys ; and as the dean is away Lucy wants to speak to 
the archdeacon about them." 

^* And the archdeacon could not subscribe his ten-pound note without 
having Mr. Champion to back him ] " 

" My dear Ludovic, you do put it in such a way." 

" Never mind, mother. I've no special dislike to Champion ; only 
as you are not paid five thousand a year for your trouble, it is rather 
hard that you should have to do all the work of opposition bishop in 
the diocese/' 

It was felt by them all, — including Lord Lufton himself, who 
"became so interested in the matter as to forgive the black coats before 
the evening was over, — that this matter of Mr. Crawley's committal 
"was very serious, and demanded the full energies of their party. It 
"was known to them all that the feeling at the palace was inimical to 
Mr. Crawley. "That she-Beelzebub hates him for his poverty, and 
because Arabin brought him into the diocese," said the archdeacon, 
permitting himself to use very strong language in his allusion to the 
bishop's wife. It must be recorded on his behalf that he used the 
phrase in the presence only of the gentlemen of the party. - 1 think he 
might have whispered the word into the ear of his confidential friend 
old Lady Lufton, and perhaps have given no offence ; but he would 
not have ventured to use such words aloud in the presence of ladies. 

"You forget, archdeacon," said Dr. Thorne, laughing, "that the she- 
Beelzebub is my wife's particular friend." 

" Not a bit of it," said the archdeacon. " Your wife knows better 
than that. You tell her what I call her, and if she complains of the 

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name, I'll unsay it." It may therefore be supposed that Dr. Thome, 
and Mra Thorne, and the archdeacon, knew each other intimately, and 
understood each other's feeliogs on these matters. 

It was quite true that the palace party was inimical to Mr. Crawley. 
Mr. Crawley undoubtedly was poor, and had not been so submissive to 
episcopal authority as it«behoves any clergyman to be whose loaves and 
fishes are scanty. He had raised his back more than once against orders 
emanating from the palace in a manner that had made the hairs on the 
head of the bishop's wife to stand almost on end, and had taken as 
much upon himself as though his living had been worth twelve hundred 
a year. Mra. Froudie, almost as energetic in her language as the arclu 
deacon, had called him a beggarly perpetual curate. " We must have 
perpetual curates, my dear," the bishop had said. ** They should know 
their places then. But what can you expect of a creature from the 
deanery? All that ought to be altered, llie dean should have no 
patronage in the diocese. No dean should have any patronage. It is 
an abuse from the beginning to the end. Dean Arabin, if he had any 
conscience, would be doing the duty at Hogglestock himself." How 
the bishop strove to teach his wife, with mildest words, what really 
ought to be a dean's duty, and how the wife rejoined by teaching her 
husband, not in the mildest words, what ought to be a bishop's duty, 
we wiU not further inquire here. The fact that such dialogues took 
place at the palace is recorded simply to show that the palatial feeling 
in Barchester ran counter to Mr. Crawley. 

And thip was cause enough, if no other cause existed, for partiality 
to Mr. Crawley at Framley Court. But, as has been partly explained, 
there existed, if possible, even stronger ground than this for adherence 
to the Crawley cause. The younger Lady Lufton had known the 
Crawleys intimately, and the elder Lady Lufton had reckoned them 
among the neighbouring clerical families of her acquaintance. Both 
these ladies were therefore staunch in their defence of Mr. Crawley. 
The archdeacon himself had his own reasons, — reasons which for the 
present he kept altogether within his own bosom, — for wishing that 
Mr. Crawley had never entered the diocese. Whether the perpetual 
curate should or should not be declared to be a thief, it would be terrible 
to him to have to call the child of that perpetu^ curate his daughter-in- 
law. But not the less on this occasion was heiprue to his order, true 
to his side in the diocese, true to his hatred of the palace. 

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** I don't believe it for a moment," he said, as he took his place on 
the rag before the fire in the drawing-room when the gentlemen came 
in from their wine. The ladies understood at once what it was that he 
couldn't believe. Mr. Crawley had for the moment so usurped the 
county that nobody thought of talking of anything else. 

" How is it, then," said Mra Thome, " that Lord Lufton, and ray 
husband, and the other wiseacres at Silverbridge, have committed him 
for trial r' 

" Because we were told to do so by the lawyer," said Dr. Thome. 
'' Ladies will never understand that magistrates must act in accordance 
with the law," said Lord Lufton. 

" But you all say he's not guilty," said Mrs. Eobarts. 
'' The fact is, that the magistrates cannot try the question," said the 
archdeacon ; " they only hear the primary evidence. Li this case I 
don't believe Crawley would ever have been committed if ke had 
employed an attorney, instead of speaking for himself." 

" Why didn't somebody make him have an attorney 1 " said Lady 

**I don't think any attorney in the world could have spoken for 
him better than he spoke for himself," said Dr. Thome. 

" And yet you committed him," said his wife. ** What can we do 
for himi Can't we pay the bail and send him off to America) " 
" A jury will never find him guilty," said Lord Lufton. 
'' And what is the truth of it 1 " asked the younger Lady Lufton. 
Then the whole matter was discussed again, and it was settled 
among them aU that Mr. Crawley had undoubtedly appropriated the 
cheque through temporary obliquity of judgment,— obliquity of 
judgment and forgetfuUiess as to the source from whence the clieque 
had come to him. '* He has picked it up about the house, and then 
has thought that it was his own," said Lord Lufton. Had they come 
to the conclusion that such an appropriation of money had been made 
by one of the clergy of the palace, by one of the Proudeian party, they 
ivould doubtless have been very loud and very bitter as to the iniquity 
of the offender. They would have said much as to the weakness of the 
bishop and the wickedness of the bishop's wife, and would have 
declared the appropriate^ to have been as very a thief as ever picked a 
pocket or opened a till ; — ^but they were unanimous in their acquittal 
of Mr. Crawley. It had not been his intention, they saiji, to be a 

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thief, and a man should be judged only by his intention. It must now 
be their object to induce a Barchester jury to look at the matter in the 
same light. 

"When they come to understand how the land lies," said the 
archdeacon, " they will be all right. There's not a tradesman in the 
city who does not hate that woman as though she were " 

" Archdeacon," said his wife, cautioning him to repress his energy. 

" Their bills are aU paid by this new chaplain they've got, and he is 
made to claim discount on every leg of mutton," said the archdeacon. 
Arguing from which fact, — or from which assertion, he came to the 
conclusion that no Barchester jury would find Mr. Crawley guilty. 

But it was agreed on aU sides that it would not be well to trust to 
the unassisted friendship of the Barchester tradesmen. Mr. Crawley 
must be provided with legal assistance, and this must be furnished to 
him whether he should be willing or unwilling to receive it. - That 
there would be a difficulty was acknowledged. Mr. Crawley was 
known to be a man not easy of persuasion, with a will of his own, with 
a great energy of obstinacy on points which he chose to take up as 
being of importance to his calling, or' to his own professional status. 
He had pleaded his own cause before the magistrates, and it might be 
that he would insist on doing the same thing before the judge. At 
last Mr. Eobarts, the clergyman,' of Framley, was deputed from the 
knot of Crawleian advocates assembled in Lady Lufton's drawing-room, 
to undertake the duty of seeing Mr. Crawley, and of explaining to him 
that his proper defence was regarded as a matter appertaining to the 
clergy and gentry generally of that part of the country, and that for 
the sake of the clergy and gentry the defence must of course be 
properly conducted. In such circumstances the expense of the defence 
would of course be borne by the clergy and gentry concerned. It wat 
thought that Mr. Eobarts could put the matter to Mr. Crawley with 
such a mixture of the strength of manly friendship and the softness of 
clerical persuasion, as to overcome the recognized difficulties of the 

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Tidings of Mr. Crawley's fate reached the palace at Barchester on the 
afternoon of the day on which the magistrates had committed him. All 
such tidings travel very quickly, conveyed by imperceptible wires, and 
distributed by indefatigable message boys whom Eumour seems to supply 
for. the purpose. Barchester is twenty miles from Silverbridge by road, 
and more than forty by railway. I doubt whether any one was com- 
missioned to send the news along the actual telegraph, and yet Mrs. 
Proudie knew it before four o'clock. But she did not know it quite 
accurately. " Bishop," she said, standing at her husband's study-door ; 
" they have committed that man to gaol. There was no help for them 
unless they had forsworn themselves." 

" Not forsworn themselves, my dear," said the bishop, striving, as 
was usual with him, by some meek and ineffectual word to teach his 
wife that she was occasionally led by her energy into error. He never 
persisted in the lessons when he found, as was usual, that they were 
taken amiss. 

" I say forsworn themselves ! " said Mrs. Proudie ; " and now what 
do you mean to do 1 This is Thursday, and of course the man must 
not be allowed to desecrate the church of Hogglestock by performing 
the Sunday services." 

" If he has been committed, my dear, and is in prison " 

" I said nothing about prison, bishop." 

" Gaol, my dear." 

" I say they have committed him to gaoL So my informant tells 
me. But of course all the Plumstead and Framley set will move 
heaven and earth to get him out, so that he may be there as a disgrace 
to the diocese. I wonder how the dean will feel when he hears of it ! 
I do, indeed. For the dean, though he is an idle, useless man, with 

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no church principles, and no real piety, still he has a conscience. I 
think he has a conscience." 

" I'm sure he has, my dear." 

. " Well ; — let us hope so. And if he has a conscience, what must he 
his feelings when he hears that this creature whom he brought into the 
diocese has been committed to gaol along with common felons. ** 

" Not with felons, my dear ; at least I should think not." 

" I say with common felons ! A downright robbery of twenty pounds, 
just as though he had broken into the bank ! And so he did, with sly 
artifice, which is worse in such hands than a crowbar. And now what 
are we to do 1 Here is Thursday, and something must be done before 
Sunday for the souls of those poor benighted creatures at Hogglestock." 
Mrs. Proudie was ready for the battle, and was even now snifl&ng the 
blood afar-off. " I believe it's a hundred and thirty pounds a year," 
she said, before the bishop had collected his thoughts sufficiently for a 
reply. • 

" I think we must find out, first of all, whether he is really to be 
shut up in prison," said the bishop. 

"And suppose he is not to be shut upl Suppose they have been 
weak, or untrue to their duty — and from what we know of the magis- 
trates of Barsetshire, there is too much reason to suppose that they will 
have been so ; suppose they have let him out, is he to go about like a 
roaring lion,— among the souls of the people 1* 

The bishop sho(^ in his shoes. When Mrs. Proudie began to talk 
of the souls of the people he always shook in his shoes. She had an 
eloquent way of raising her voice over the word souls that was qualified 
to make any ordinary man shake in his shoes. The bishop was a 
conscientious man, and well knew that poor Mr. Crawley, even though 
he might have become a thief under terrible temptation, would not roar 
at Hogglestock to the injury of any man's souL He was aware that this 
poor clergymwi had done his duty laboriously and efficiently, and he 
was also aware that though he might have been committed by the 
magistrates, and then let out upon bail, he should not be regarded now, 
in these days before his trial, as a convicted thief. But to explain all this 
to Mrs. Proudie was beyond his power. He knew well that she wouM 
not hear a word in mitigation of Mr. Crawley's presumed offence. Mr. 
Crawley belonged to the other party, and Mrs. Proudie was a thorough- 
going partisan. I know a man, — an excellent fellow, who, being 

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himself a strong politician, constantly expresses a belief that all 
politicians opposed to him are thieves, child-murderers, parricides, lovers 
of incest, demons upon the earth. He is a strong partisan, hut not, I 
think, so strong as Mrs. Proudie. He says that he believes all evil of 
his opponents ; but she really believed the eviL The archdeacon had 
called Mrs. Proudie a she-Beelzebub ; but that was a simple ebullition 
of mortal hatred. He believed her to be simply a vulgar, interfering, 
brazen-faced virago. Mrs. Proudie in truth believed that the archdeacon 
was an actual emanation from Satan, sent to those parts to devour souls, 
— as she would call it, — and that she herself was an emanation of 
another sort, sent from another source expressly to Barchester, to prevent 
such devouring, as far as it might possibly be prevented by a mortal 
agency. The bishop knew it all, — ^understood it all. He regarded the 
archdeacon as a clergyman belouging to a party opposed to his party, 
and he disliked the man. He knew that from his first coming into the 
diocese he had been encountered with enmity by the archdeacon and 
the archdeacon's friends. If left to himself he could feel and to a certain 
extent could resent such enmity. But he had no faith in his wife's 
doctrine of emanations. He had no faith in many things which she 
believed religiously ; — and yet what could he do 1 If he attempted to 
explain, she would stop him before he had got through the first half of 
his first sentence. 

" If he is out on bail ," commenced the bishop. 

" Of course he will be out on bail." 

"Then I think he should feel " 

" Feel ! such men never feel ! What feeling can one expect from a 
convicted thief]" 

" Not convicted as yet, my dear," said the bishop. 

" A convicted thief ! " repeated Mrs. Proudie ; and she vociferated 
the words in such a tone that the bishop resolved that he would for 
the future let the word convicted pass without notice. After all she 
was only using the phrase in a pecuhar sense given to it by herself. 

"It won't be proper, certainly, that he should do the services," 
suggested the bishop. 

" Proper ! It would be a scandal to the whole diocese. How could 
he raise his head as he pronounced the eighth commandment ? That 
must be at least prevented." 

The bishop, who was seated, fretted himself in his chair, moving 


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about with little movements. He knew that there was a misery coming 
upon him ; and, as far as he could see, it might become a great misery, 
a huge blistering sore upon him. When miseries came to him, as they 
did not infrequently, he would unconsciously endeavour to fathom them 
and weigh them, and then, with some gallantry, resolve to bear them, 
if he could find that their depth and weight were not too great fpr his 
powers of endurance. He would let the cold wind whistle by him, 
putting up the collar of his coat, and would encounter the winter 
weather without complaint. And he would be patient under the hot 
sun, knowing well that tranquillity is best for those who have to bear 
tropical heat. But when the storm threatened to knock him off his legs, 
when the earth beneath him became too hot for his poor tender feet, 
— what could he do then ? There had been with him such periods of 
misery, during which he had wailed inwardly and had confessed to 
himself that the wife of his bosom was too much for him. Now the 
storm seemed to be coming very roughly. It would be demanded of 
him that he should exercise certain episcopal authority which he knew 
did not belong to him. Now, episcopal authority admits of being 
stretched or contracted, according to the character of the bishop who 
uses it. It is not always easy for a bishop himself to know what he 
may do, and what he may not do. He may certainly give advice to 
any clergyman in his diocese, and he may give it in such form that it 
will have in it something of authority. Such advice coming from a 
dominant bishop to a clergyman with a submissive mind has in it very 
much of authority. But Bishop Proudie knew that Mr. Crawley was 
not a clergyman with a submissive mind, and he feared that he himself, 
as regarded from Mr. Crawley's point of view, was not a dominant 
bishop. And yet he could only act by advice. " I will write to him," 
said the bishop, " and will explain to him that as he is circumstanced 
he should not appear in the reading depk." 

'* Of course he must not appear in the reading desk. That scandal 
must at any rate be inhibited." Now the bishop did not at all like the 
use of the word inhibited, understanding well that Mrs. Proudie 
intended it to be understood as implying some episcopal command 
against which there should be no appeal ; — ^but he let it pass. 

" I will write to him, my dear, to-night." 

" And Mr. Thumble can go over with the letter the first thing in the 

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" WiU not the post be better 1 '* 

" No, bishop ; certainly not." 

" He would get it sooner, if I write to-night, my dear." 

" In either case he will get it to-morrow morning. An hour or two 
will not signify, and if Mr. Thumble takes it himself we shall know 
how it is received. It will be well that Thumble should be there in 
person as he will want to look for lodgings in the parish." 

"But, my dear " 

"Well, bishop?" 

" About lodgings 1 I hardly think that Mr. Thumble, if we decide 
that Mr. Thumble shall undertake the duty " 

" We have decided that Mr. Thumble should undertake the duty. 
That is decided." 

"But I do not think he should trouble himself to look for lodgings 
at Hogglestock. He qan go over on the Sundays." 

" And who is to do the parish work 1 Would you have that man, a 
convicted thief, to look after the schools, and visit the sick, and perhaps 
attend the dying ? " 

" There wiU be a great dijficulty ; there will indeed," said the 
bishop, becoming very unhappy, and feeling that he was driven by 
circumstances either to assert his own knowledge or teach Ms wife 
something of the law with reference to his position as a bishop. "Who 
is to pay Mr. Thumble ? " 

" The income of the parish must be sequestrated, and he must be 
paid out of that 1 Of course he must have the income while he does 
the work." 

" But my dear, I cannot sequestrate the man's income." 

" I don't believe it, bishop. If the bishop cannot sequestrate it, who 
can] But you are always timid in exercising the authority put into 
your hands for wise purposes. Not sequestrate the income of a man 
who has been proved to be a thief ! You leave that to us, and we will 
manage it." The " us " here named comprised Mrs. Proudie and the 
bishop's managing chaplain. 

Then the bishop was left alone for an hour to write the letter which 
Mr. Thumble was to carry over to Mr. Crawley, — and after a while he 
did write it. Before he commenced the task, however, he sat for some 
moments in his arm-chair close by the fireside, asking himself whether 
it might not be possible for him to overcome his enemy in this matter. 

H 2 

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How would it go with him suppose he were to leave the letter unwritten, 
and send in a message by his chaplain to Mrs. Proudie, saying that as 
Mr. Crawley was out on bail, the parish might be left for the present 
without episcopal interference? She could not make him interfere. 
She could not force him to write the letter. So, at least, he said to 
himself. But as he said it, he almost thought that she could do these 
things. In the last thirty years, or more, she had ever contrived by 
some power latent in her to have her will effected. But what would 
happen, if now, even now, he were to rebel 1 That he would personally 
become very uncomfortable, he was well aware, but he thought that he 
could bear that. The food would become bad, — mere ashes between 
his teeth; the daily modicum of wine would lose its flavour; the 
chimneys would all smoke; the wind would come from the east, 
and the servants would not answer the belL Little miseries of that 
kind would crowd upon him. He had arrived at a time of life in which 
such miseries make such men very miserable ; but yet he thought that 
he could endure them. And what other wretchedness would come to 
him ] She would scold him, frightfully, loudly, scornfully, and worse 
than all, continually. But of this he had so much habitually, that 
anything added might be borne also ; — ^if only he could be sure that 
the scoldings should go on in private, that the world of the palace 
should not be allowed to hear the revilings to which he would be 
subjected. But to be scolded publicly was the great evil which he 
dreaded beyond all evils. He was well aware that the palace would 
know his misfortune, that it was known, and freely discussed by all, 
from the examining chaplain down to the palace boot-boy ; — nay, that it 
was known to aU the diocese ; but yet he could smile upon those around 
him, and look as though he held his own like other men, — unless when 
open violence was displayed. But when that voice was heard aloud 
along the corridors of the palace, and when he was summoned 
imperiously by the woman, calling for her bishop, so that all Barchester 
heard it, and when he was compelled to creep forth from his study, at 
the sound of that summons, with distressed face, and shaking hands, 
and short, hurrying steps, — b, being to be pitied even by a deacon, — 
not venturing to assume an air of masterdom should he chance to meet 
a housemaid on the stairs, — then, at such moments as that, he would 
feel that any submission was better than the misery which he suffered. 
And he well knew that should he now rebel, the whole house would 

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be in a turmoiL He would be bishoped here, and bishoped there, 
before the eyes of all palatial men and women, till life would be a 
burden to him. So he got up from his seat over the fire, and went to 
his desk and wrote the letter. The letter was as follows : — 

"The Palace, Barchester, December, 186—. 

" Eeverbnd Sib," — (he left out the dear, because he knew that if he 
inserted it he would be compelled to write the letter over again,) — " I 
have heard to-day with the greatest trouble of spirit, that you have been 
taken before a bench of magistrates assembled at Silverbridge, having 
been previously arrested by the police in your parsonage-house at 
Hogglestock, and that the magistrates of Silverbridge have committed 
you to take your trial at the next assizes at Barchester, on a charge of 

" Far be it from me to prejudge the case. You will understand, 
reverend sir, that I express no opinion whatever as to your guilt or 
innocence in this matter. If you have been guilty, may the Lord give 
you grace to repent of your great sin, and to make such amends as may 
come from immediate acknowledgment and confession. If you are 
innocent may He protect you, and make your innocence to shine before 
all men. In either case may the Lord be with you and keep your feet 
from further stumbling. 

" But I write to you now as your bishop, to explain to you that, 
circumstanced as you are, you cannot with decency perform the church 
services of your parish. I have that confidence in you that I doubt 
not you will agree with me in this, and be grateful to me for relieving 
you so far from the immediate perplexities of your position. I have, 
therefore, appointed the Rev. Caleb Thumble to perform the duties of 
incumbent of Hogglestock till such time as a jury shall have decided 
upon your case at Barchester ; and in order that you may at once 
become acquainted with Mr. Thumble, as will be most convenient that 
you should do, I will commission him to deliver this letter into your 
hand personally to-morrow, trusting that you will receive him with 
that brotherly spirit in which he is sent upon this painful mission. 

"Touching the remuneration to which Mr. Thumble will become 
entitled for his temporary ministrations in the parish of Hogglestock, 
I do not at present lay down any strict injunction. He must, at any 
rate, be paid at a rate not less than that ordinarily afforded for a curate. 

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" I will once again express my fervent hope that the Lord may 
hring you to see the true state of your own soul, and that He may fill 
you with the grace of repentance, so that the bitter waters of the present 
hour may not pass over your head and destroy you. 
" I have the honour to he, 

" Eeverend Sir, 
" Your faithful servant in Christ, 

" T. Barnum." * 

The bishop had hardly finished his letter when Mrs. Proudie 
returned to the study, followed by the Eev. Caleb Thumble. Mr. 
Thumble was a little man, about forty years of age, who had a wife 
and children living in Barchester, and who existed on such chance 
clerical crumbs as might fall from the table of the bishop's patronage. 
People in Barchester said that Mrs. Thumble was a cousin of Mrs. 
Proudie's ; but as Mrs. Proudie stoutly denied the connection it may 
be supposed that the people of Barchester were wrong. Had Mr. 
Thumble's wife in truth been a cousin, Mrs. Proudie would surely have 
provided for him during the many years in which the diocese had been 
in her hands. No such provision had been made, and Mr. Thumble, 
who had now been living in the diocese for three years, had received 
nothiDg else from the bishop than such chance employment as this 
which he was now to undertake at Hogglestock. He was a humble, 
mild-voiced man when within the palace precincts, and had so far 
succeeded in making his way among his brethren in the cathedral city 
as to be employed not unfrequently for absent minor canons in chanting 
the week-day services, being remunerated for his work at the rate of 
about five shillings a service. 

The bishop handed his letter to his wife, observing in an off-hand 
kind of way that she might as well see what he said. ** Of course I 
shall read it," said Mrs. Proudie. And the bishop winced visibly, 
because Mr. Thumble was present. " Quite right," said Mrs. Proudie, 
quite right to let him know that you knew that he had been arrested, 
— actually arrested by the police." 

* Baro^^um Castrum having been the old Roman name from which the modem 
Barchester is derived, the bishops of t le diocese have always signed themselves 

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" I thought it proper to mention that, because of the scandal," said 
the bishop. 

" Oh, it has been terrible in the city/' said Mr. Thumble. 

" Neyer mind, Mr. Thumble," said Mrs. Proudie. " Never mind 
that at present." Then she continued to read the letter." What's this 1 
Confession ! That must come out, bishop. It will never do that you 
should recommend confession to anybody, under any circumstances." 

" But, my dear " 

" It must come out, bishop." 

"My lord has not meant auricular confession," suggested Mr. 
Thumble. Then Mrs. Proudie turned round and looked at Mr. 
Thumble, and Mr. Thumble nearly sank amidst the tables and chaiis. 
** I beg your pardon, Mrs. Proudie/' he said. " I didn't mean to 

" The word must come out, bishop," repeated Mrs. Proudie. " There 
should be no stumbling-blocks prepared for feet that are only too ready 
to fall." And the word did come out. 

" Now, Mr. Thumble," said the lady, as she gave the letter to her 
satellite, "the bishop and I wish you to be at Hogglestock early 
to-morrow. You should be there not later than ten, certainly." Then 
she paused until Mr. Thumble had given the required promise. "And 
we request that you will be very firm in the mission which is confided 
to you, a mission which, as of course you see, is of a very delicate and 
important nature. You must be firm." 

" I will endeavour," said Mr. Thumble. 

" The bishop and I both feel that this most unfortunate man must 
not under any circumstances be allowed to perform the services of the 
Church while this charge is hanging over him, — a charge as to the truth 
of which no sane man can entertain a doubt." 

" I'm afraid not, Mrs. Pi-oudie," said Mr. Thumble. 

" The bishop and I, therefore, are most anxious that you should 
make Mr. Crawley understand at once — ^at once," and the lady, as she 
spoke, lifted up her left hand with an eloquent violence which had its 
effect upon Mr. Thumble, " that he is inhibited," — the bishop shook in 
his shoes, — "inhibited from the performance of any of his sacred 
duties." Thereupon Mr. Thumble promised obedience and went his 

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Matters went very badly indeed in the parsonage-house at Hogglestock. 
On the Friday morning, the morning of the day after his committal, 
Mr. Crawley got up very early, long before the daylight, and dressing 
himself in the dark, groped his way downstairs. His wife having 
vainly striven to persuade him to remain where he was, followed him 
into the cold room below with a lighted candle. She found him standing 
with his hat on and with his old cloak, as though he were prepared to 
go out. " Why do you do this 1 " she said. " You will make yourself 
ill with the cold and the night air ; and then you, and I too, will be 
worse than we now are." 

" We cannot be worse. You cannot be worse, and for me it does 
not signify. Let me pass." 

" I will not let you pass, Josiah. Be a man and bear it. Ask God 
for strength, instead of seeking it in an over-indulgence of your own 

" Indulgence ! " 

** Yes, love ; — indulgence. It is indulgence. You will allow your 
mind to dwell on nothing for a moment but your own wrongs." 

" What else have I that I can think of 1 Is not all the world against 

" Am I against you '\ " 

" Sometimes I think you are. When you accuse me of self-indulgence 
you are against me, — me, who for myself have desired nothing but to 
be allowed to do my duty, and to have bread enough to keep me alive, 
and clothes enough to make me decent." 

" Is it not self-indulgence, this giving way to grief ? Who would 
know so well as you how to teach the lesson of endurance to others ? 

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Come, love. Lay down your hat. It cannot be fifting that you should 
go out into the wet and cold of the raw morning." 

For a moment he hesitated, but as she raised her hand to take his 
cloak from him he drew back from her, and would not permit it. " I 
shall find those up whom I want to see," he said. " I must visit my 
flock, and I dare not go through the parish by daylight lest they hoot 
after me as a thief." 

" Not one in Hogglestock would say a word to insult you." 

" Would they not ] The very children in the school whisper at me. 
Let me pass, I say. It has not as yet come to that, that I should be 
stopped in my egress and ingress. They have — ^bailed me; and while 
their bail lasts, I may go where I will." 

" Oh, Josiah what words to me ! Have I ever stopped your liberty 1 
Would I not give my life to secure it 1 " 

" Let me go, then, now. I tell you that I have business in hand." 

" But I will go with you] I will be ready in an instant." 

** You go % Why should you go ? Are there not the children for 
you to mind ] " 

" There is only Jane." 

" Stay with her, then. Why should you go about the parish ] " 
She still held him by the cloak, and looked anxiously up into his face. 
" Woman, " he said, raising his voice, " what is it that you dread ] I 
command you to tell me what is it that you fear ] " He h^ now 
taken hold of her by the shoulder, slightly thrusting her from him, so 
that he might see her face by the dim light of the single candle. " Speak, 
I say. What is it that you think that I shall do ] " 

" Dearest, I know that you will be better at home, better with me, 
than you can be on such a morning as this out in the cold damp air." 

" And is that all ? " He looked hard at her, while she returned his 
gaze with beseeching, loving eyes. " Is there nothing behind, that you 
wiU not tell me?" 

She paused for a moment before she replied. She had never lied to 
him. She could not lie to him. " I wish you knew my heart towards 
you," she said, " with all and everything in it." 

" I know your heart well, but I want to know your mind. Why 
would you persuade me not to go out among my poor ] " 

" Because it will be bad for you to be out alone in the dark lanes, in 
the mud and wet, thinking of your sorrow. You will brood over it till 

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you lose your senses through the intensity of your grief. You will 
stand out in the cold air, forgetful of everything around you, tiU your 
limbs will be numbed, and your blood chilled, '* 

"And then- — ?" 

" Oh, Josiah, do not hold me like that, and look at me so angrily." 

" And even then I will bear my burden till the Lord in his mercy 
shall see fit to relieve me. Even then I will endure, though a bare 
bodkin or a leaf of hemlock would put an end to it. Let me pass on ; 
you need fear nothing." 

She did let him pass without another word, and he went out of the 
house, shutting the door after him noiselessly, and closing the wicket- 
gate of the garden. For a while she sat herself down on the nearest 
chair, and tried to make up her mind how she might best treat him in 
his present state of mind. As regarded the present morning her heart 
was at ease. She knew that he would do now nothing of that which 
she had apprehended. She could trust him not to be false in his word 
to her, though she could not before have trusted him not to commit so 
much heavier a sin. If he would really employ himself from morning 
tin night among the poor, he would be better so, — his trouble would 
be easier of endurance, — than with any other employment which he 
could adopt. What she most dreaded was that he should sit idle over 
the fire and do nothing. When he was so seated she could read his 
mind, as though it was open to her as a book. She had been quite 
right when she had accused him of over-indulgence in his grief. He 
did give way to it till it became a luxury to him, — a luxury which she 
would not have had the heart to deny him had she not felt it to be of 
all luxuries the most pernicious. During these long hours, in which he 
would sit speechless, doing nothing, he was telling himself from minute 
to minute that of all God's creatures he was the most heavily afflicted, 
and was revelling in the sense of the injustice done to him. He was 
recalling all the facts of his life, his education, which had been costly, 
and, as regarded knowledge, successful ; his vocation to the Church, 
when in his youth he had determined to devote himself to the service 
of his Saviour, disregarding promotion or the favour of men ; the short, 
sweet days of his early love, in which he had devoted himself again, — 
thinking nothing of self, but everything of her ; his diligent working, 
in which he had ever done his very utmost for the parish in which he 
was placed, and always his best for the poorest ; the success of other 

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men who had been his compeers, and, as he too often told himself, 
intellectually his inferiors ; then of his children, who had been carried 
off from his love to the churchyard,— over whose graves he himself had 
stood, reading out the pathetic words of the funeral service with 
unswerving voice and a bleeding heart ; and then of his children still 
living, who loved their mother so much better than they loved him. 
And lie would recall all the circumstances of his poverty, — how he had 
been driven to accept alms, to fly from creditors, to hide himself, to see 
his chairs and tables seized before the eyes of those over whom he had 
been set as their spiritual pastor. And in it all, I think, there was 
nothing so bitter to the man as the derogation from the spiritual grandeur 
of his position as priest among men, which came as one necessary result 
from his poverty. St. Paul could go forth without money in his purse, 
or shoes to his feet, or two suits to his back, and his poverty never 
stood in the way of his preaching, or hindered the veneration of the 
faithful. St. Paul, indeed, was. called upon to bear stripes, was flung 
into prison, encountered terrible dangers. But Mr. Crawley, — so he 
told himself, — could have encountered all that without flinching. 
The stripes and scorn of the unfaithful would have been nothing to 
him, if only the faithful would have believed in him, poor as he was, 
as they would have believed in him had he been rich ! Even they 
whom he had most loved treated him almost with derision, because 
he was now different from them. Dean Arabin had laughed at him 
because he had persisted in walking ten miles through the mud instead 
of being conveyed in the dean's carriage ; and yet, after that, he had 
been driven to accept the dean's charity! No one respected him. 
No one ! His very wife thought that he was a lunatic. And now he 
had been publicly branded as a thief ; and in all likelihood would end 
his days in a gaol ! Such were always his thoughts as he sat idle, 
silent, moody, over the fire ; and his wife well knew their currents. 
It woidd certainly be better that he should drive himself to some 
employment, if any employment could be found possible to him. 

When she had been alone for a few minutes, Mrs. Crawley got up 
£N>m her chair, and going into the kitchen, lighted the fire there, and 
put the kettle over it, and began to prepare such breakfast for her hus- 
band as the means in the house afforded. Then she called the sleeping 
servant-girl, who was little more than a child, and went into her own 
girl's room, and then she got into bed with her daughter. 

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" I have been up with your papa, dear, and I am cold." 
" Oh, mamma, poor mamma ! Why is papa up so early % " 
" He has gone out to visit some of the brickmakers before they go tc 
their work. It is better for him to be employed." 
" But, mamma, it is pitch dark ! " 

" Yes, dear, it is still dark. Sleep again for a while, and I will sleep 
too. I think Grace will be here to-night, and then there will be no 
room for me here." 

Mr. Crawley went forth and made his way with rapid steps to a 
portion of his parish nearly two miles distant from his house, through 
which was carried a canal, affording water communication in some 
intricate way both to London and Bristol And on the brink of this 
canal there had sprung up a colony of brickmakers, the nature of the 
earth in those parts combining with the canal to make brickmaking a 
suitable trade. The workmen there assembled were not, for the most 
part, native-bom Hogglestockians, or folk descended from Hogglestockian 
parents. They had come thither from unknown regions, as labourers 
of that class do come when they are needed. Some young men fix)m 
that and neighbouring parishes had joined themselves to the colony* 
allured by wages, and disregarding the menaces of the neighbouring 
farmers ; but they were all in appearance and manners nearer akin to 
the race of navvies than to ordinary rural labourers. They had a 
bad name in the country ; but it may be that their name was worse 
than their deserts. The farmers hated them, and consequently they 
hated the farmers. They had a beershop, and a grocer's shop, and a huck- 
ster's shop for their own accommodation, and were consequently vilified 
by the small old-established tradesmen around them. They got drunk 
occasionally, but I doubt whether they drank more than did the farmers 
themselves on market-day. They fought among themselves sometimes, 
but they forgave each other freely, and seemed to have no objection to 
black eyes. I fear that they were not always good to their wives, nor 
were their wives always good to them ; but it should be remembered 
that among the poor, especially when they live in clusters, such misfor- 
tunes cannot be hidden as they may be amidst the decent belongings of 
more wealthy people. That they worked very hard was certain ; and 
it was certain also that very few of their number ever came upon the 
poor-rates. What became of the old brickmakers no one knew. Who 
ever sees a worn-out aged nawie ] 

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Mr. Crawley, ever since his first coming into Hogglestock, had been 
very busy among these brickmakers, and by no means -without success. 
Indeed tbe farmers had quarrelled with him because the brickmakers 
bad so crowded the narrow parish church as to leave but scant room 
for decent people. " Doo they folk pay tithes 1 That's what I want 
'un to tell me," argued one farmer, — not altogether unnaturally, believing 
as he did that Mr. Crawley was paid by tithes out of his own pocket. 
But Mr. Crawley had done his best to make the brickmakers welcome 
at the church, scandalizing the farmers by causing them to sit or stand 
in any portion of the church which was hitherto imappropriated. He 
had been constant in his personal visits to them, and had felt himself 
to be more a St. Paul with them than with any other of his neighbours 
around him. 

It was a cold morning, but the rain of the preceding evening had 
given way to frost, and the air, though sharp, was dry. The ground 
under the feet was crisp, having felt the wind and frost, and was no 
longer clogged with mud. In his present state of mind the walk was 
good for our poor pastor, and exhilarated him ; but still, as he went, 
he thought always of his injuries. His own wife believed that he was 
about to commit suicide, and for so believing he was very angry with 
her ; and yet, as he well knew, the idea of making away with himseM 
had flitted through his own mind a dozen times. Not from his own 
•wife could he get real sympathy. He would see what he could do with 
a certain brickmaker of his acquaintance. 

" Are you here, Dan ] " he said, knocking at the door of a cottage 
which stood alone, close to the towing-path of the canal, and close also 
to a forlorn corner of the muddy, watery, ugly, disordered brickfield. It 
was now just past six o'clock, and the men would be rising, as in 
midwinter they commenced their work at seven. The cottage was an 
unalluring, straight brick-built tenement, seeming as though intended 
to be one of a row which had never progressed beyond Number One. 
A voice answered from the interior, inquiring who was the visitor, to 
which Mr. Crawley repHed by giving his name. Then the key was 
turned in the lock, and Dan Morris, the brickmaker, appeared with a 
candle in his hand. He had been engaged in lighting the fire, with a 
view to his own breakfast. " Where is your wife, Dan ? " asked Mr. 
Crawley. The man -answered by pointing with a short poker, which 
he held in his hand, to the bed, which was half screened from the room 

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by a ragged curtain, which hung from the ceiling half-way down to 
the floor*. " And are the Darvels here ] " asked Mr. Crawley. Then 
Morris, again using the poker, pointed upwards, showing that the 
Darvels were still in their own allotted abode upstairs. 

" You're early out, Muster Crawley," said Morris, and then he went 
on with his fire. " Drat the sticks, if they bean't as wut as the old 
*un hisself. Get up, old woman, and do you do it, for I can't. They 
wun't kindle for me, nohow." But the old woman, having well noted the 
presence of Mr. Crawley, thought it better to remain where she was. 

Mr. Crawley sat himself down by the obstinate fire, and began to 
arrange the sticks. " Dan, Dan," said a voice from the bed, " sure you 
wouldn't let his reverence trouble himself with the fire." 

" How be I to keep him from it if he chooses ] I didn't ax him." 
Then Morris stood by and watched, and after a while Mr. Crawley 
succeeded in his attempt. 

" How could it burn when you had not given the small spark a 
current of air to help it 1 " said Mr. Crawley. 

" In course not," said the woman, " but he be such a stoopid." 

The husband said no word in acknowledgment of this compliment, 
nor did he thank Mr. Crawley for what he had done, nor appear as 
though he intended to take any notice of him. He was going on with 
his work when Mr. Crawley again interrupted him. 

" How did you get back from Silverbridge yesterday, Dan 1 " 

" Footed it, — all the blessed way." 

" It's only eight miles." 

" And I footed it there, and that's sixteen. And I paid one-and- 
sixpence for beer and grub ; — s'help me, I did." 

" Dan ! " said the voice from the bed, rebuking him for the impro- 
priety of his language. 

" Well ; I beg pardon, but I did. And they guv me two bob ; — 
just two plain shillings, by " 


" And I'd Ve amed three-and-six here at brickmaking, easy ; that's 
what I would. How's a poor man to live that way ] They'll not cotch 
me at Barchester 'Sizes at that price ; they may be sure o' that. Look 
there, — ^that's what I've got for my day." And he put his hand into 
his breeches'-pocket and fetched out a sixpence. " How's a man to fill 
his belly out of that 1 Damnation ! " 

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**Well, what did I say] Hold your jaw, will you, and not be 
halloaing at me that way % I know what I'm a saying of, and what Fm 
a doing of/' 

" I wish they'd given you something more with all my heart," said 

" We knows that," said the woman fix>m the bed. " We is sure of 
that, your reverence." 

" Sixpence ! " said the man scornfully. " K they'd have guv* me 
nothing at all but the run of my teeth at the public-house, I'd 've taken 
it better. But sixpence ! " 

Then there was a pause. "And what have they given to mel" 
said Mr. Crawley, when the man's ill-humour about his sixpence 
had so far subsided as to allow of his busying himself again about the 

" Yes, indeed ; — yes, indeed," said the woman. " Yes, yes, we feel 
that ; we do indeed, Mr. Crawley." 

** I tell you what, sir ; for another sixpence, I'd 've sworn you'd never 
guv' me the paper at all ; and so I will now, if it bean't too late ; — six- 
pence or no sixpence. What do I care 1 d — them." 


*' And why shouldn't II They hain't got brains enough among them 
to winny the truth from the lies — not among the lot of 'em. I'U swear 
afore the judge that you didn't give it me at all, if that'll do any good." 

" Man, do you think I would have you perjure yourself, even if that 
would do me a service 1 And do you think that any man was ever 
served by a lie % " 

" Faix, among them chaps it don't do to tell them too much of the 
truth. Look at that ! '* And he brought out the sixpence again from 
his breeches'-pocket. <* And look at your reverence. Only that they've 
let you out for a while, they've been nigh as hard on you as though you 
were one of us.*' 

"If they think that I stole it, they have been right," said Mr. 

" It's been along of that chap Soames," said the woman. " The lord 
would 've paid the money out of his own pocket and never said not a 

" If they think that Tve been a thief, they have done right," repeated 

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Mr. Crawley. " But how can they think so ? How can they think so % 
Have I lived like a thief among them 1 " 

" For the matter o* that, if a man ain't paid for his work by them as 
is his employers, he must pay hisself. Them's my notions. Look at 
that ! " Whereupon he again pulled out the sixpence, and held it forth 
in the palm of his hand. 

" You believe, then," said Mr. Crawley, speaking very slowly, " that 
I did steal the money 1 Speak out, Dan ; I shall not be angry. As 
you go you are honest men, and I want to know what such of you 
think about it." 

" He don't think nothing of the kind," said the woman, almost getting 
out of bed in her energy. " If he'd athought the like o' that in his 
head, I'd read 'un such a lesson he'd never think again the longest day 
he had to live." 

" Speak out, Dan," said the clergyman, not attending to the woman. 
" You can understand that no good can come of a lie." Dan Morris 
scratched his head. " Speak out, man, when I tell you," said Mr. 

*' Drat it all," said Dan, " where's the use of so much jaw about 

" Say you know his reverence is as innocent as the babe as isn't bom," 
said the woman. 

" No ; I won't, — say nothing of the kind," said Dan. 

" Speak out the truth," said Crawley. 

"They do say, among 'em," said Dan, ''that you picked it up, and 
then got a woolgathering in your head till you didn't rightly know 
where it come from." Then he paused. " And after a bit you guv' it 
me to get the money. Didn't you, now ] " 

"I did." 

" And they do say if a poor man had done it, it'd been stealing, for 

" And I'm a poor man, — the poorest in all Hogglestock ; and, there- 
fore, of course, it is stealing. Of course I am a thief. Yes ; of course 
I am a thief. When did not the world believe the worst of the poor 1 " 
Having so spoken, Mr. Crawley rose from his chair and hurried out of 
the cottage, waiting no further reply from Dan Morris or his wife. And 
as he made his way slowly home, not going there by the direct road, 
but by a long circuit, he told himself that there could be no sympathy 

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for him anywhere. Even Dan Morris, the brickmaker, thought that 
he was a thief. 

" And am I a thief] ' he said to himself, standing in the middle of 
the road^ with his hands np to his forehead. 


THE bishop's angel. 

It was nearly nine before Mr. Crawley got back to his house, and found 
his wife and daughter waiting breakfast for him. " I should not wonder 
if Grace were over here to-day," said Mrs. Crawley. " SheM better 
remain where she is," said he. After this the meal passed almost 
without a word. When it was over, Jane, at a sign from her mother, 
went up to her father and asked him whether she should read with him. 
''I^ot now," he said, "not just now. I must rest my brain before it 
will be fit for any work." Then he got into the chair over the fire, 
and his wife began to fear that he would remain there all the day. 

But the morning was not far advanced, when there came a visitor 
who disturbed him, and by disturbing him did him real'sei-vice. Just 
at ten there arrived at the little gate before the house a man on a pony, 
whom Jane espied, standing there by the pony's head and looking 
about for some one to relieve him from the charge of his steed. This 
was Mr. Thumble, who had ridden over to Hogglestock on a poor 
spavined brute belonging to the bishop's stable and which had once 
been the bishop's cob. Now it was the vehicle by which Mrs. Proudie's 
episcopal messages were sent backwards and forwards through a twelve- 
miles ride round Barchester ; and so many were the lady's requirements 
that the poor animal by no means eat the hay of idleness. Mr. Thumble 
had suggested to Mrs. Proudie, after their interview with the bishop 
and the giving up of the letter to the clerical messenger's charge, that 

VOL. I. I 

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before hiring a gig from the *' DragQn of Wantley," he should be glad 
to know, — looking as he always did to " Mary Anne and the children," 
— ^whence the price of the gig was to be returned to him. Mrs. Proudie 
had frowned at him, — ^not with all the austerity of frowning which she 
could use when reaUy angered, but simply with a frown which gave 
her some little time for thought, and would enable her to continue the 
rebuke if, after thinking, she should find that rebuke was needed. But 
mature consideration showed her that Mr. Thumble*s caution was not 
without reason. Were the bishop energetic, or even the bishop's 
managing chaplain as energetic as he should be, Mr. Crawley might, as 
Mrs. Proudie felt assured, be made in some way to pay for a conveyance 
for Mr. Thumble. But the energy was lacking, and the price of the 
gig, if the gig were ordered, would certainly fall ultimately upon the 
bishop's shoulders. This was very sad. Mrs. Proudie had often grieved 
over the necessary expenditure of episcopal surveillance, and had been 
heard to declare her opinion that a liberal allowance for secret service 
should be made in every diocese. What better could the Ecclesiastical 
Commissioners do with all those rich revenues which they had stolen 
from the bishops ! But there was no such liberal allowance at present, 
and, therefore, Mrs. Proudie, after having frowned at Mr. Thumble for 
some seconds, desired him to take the grey cob. Now, Mr. Thumble 
had ridden the gre^ cob before, and would much have preferred a gig. 
But even the grey cob was better than a gig at his own cost. 

" Mamma, there's a man at the gate wanting to come in," said Jane. 
" I think he's a clergyman." 

Mr. Crawley immediately raised his head, though he did not at once 
leave his chair. Mrs. Crawley went to the window, and recognized the 
reverend visitor. "My dear, it is that Mr. Thumble who is so 
much with the bishop." 

" What does Mr. Thumble want with me?" 

" Nay, my dear ; he will tell you that himself." But Mrs. Crawley, 
though she answered him with a voice intended to be cheerful, greatly 
feared the coming of this messenger from the palace. She perceived at 
once that the bishop was about to interfere with her husband in conse- 
quence of that which the magistrates had done yesterday. 

" Mamma, he doesn't know what to do with his pony," said Jane. 

"Tell him to tie it to the rail," said Mr. Crawley. "K he baa 
expected to find menials here, as he has them at the palace, he will be 

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wrong. If he wants to come in here, let him tie the beast to the rail/' 
So Jane went out and sent a message to Mr. Thumble by the girl, and 
Mr. Thumble did tie the pony to the rail, and followed the girl into the 
house. Jane in the mean time had retired out by the back door to the 
school, but Mrs. Crawley kept her ground. She kept her ground although 
she almost believed that her husband would prefer to have the field to 
himself. As Mr. Thumble did not at once enter the room, Mr. Crawley 
stalked to the door, and stood with it open in his hand. Though he knew 
Mr. Thumble's person he was not acquainted with him, and therefore 
he simply bowed to the visitor, — bowing more than once or twice with a 
cold courtesy which did not put Mr. Thumble altogether at his ease. 
" My name is Mr. Thumble," said the visitor, — " The Keverend Caleb 
Thumble;" and he held the bishop's letter in his hand. Mr. Crawley 
seemed to take no notice of the letter, but motioned Mr. Thumble with 
his hand into the room. 

" I suppose you have come over from Barchester this morning 'i " said 
Mrs. Crawley. 

" Yes, madam, — ^from the palace." Mr. Thumble, though a humble 
man in positions in which he felt that humility would become him, — 
a humble man to his betters, as he himself would have expressed it, — 
had still about him something of that pride which naturally belonged 
to those clergymen who were closely attached to the palace at Barchester. 
Had he been sent on a message to Plumstead, — could any such message 
from Barchester palace have been possible, — he would have been properly 
humble in his demeanour to the archdeacon, or to Mrs. Grantly had 
he been admitted to the august presence of that lady ; but he was aware 
that humility would not become him on his present mission ; he had 
been expressly ordered to be firm by Mrs. Proudie, and firm he meant 
to be ; and therefore, in communicating to Mrs. Crawley the fact that 
he had come from the palace, he did load the tone of his voice with 
something of dignity wluch Mr. Crawley might perhaps be excused for 
regarding as arrogance. 

" And what does the * palace' want with me 1 " said Mr. Crawley. 
Mrs. Crawley knew at once that there was to be a battle. Nay, the 
battle had begun. Nor was she altogether sorry ; for though she could 
not trust her husband to sit alone all day in his arm-chair over the 
fire, she could trust him to carry on a disputation with any other 
clergyman on any sultject whatever. " What does the palace want 

I 2 

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with me ] " And as Mr. Crawley asked the question he stood erect, 
and looked Mr. Thumble fnU in the face. Mr. Thumble called to mind 
the fact that Mr. Crawley was a very poor man indeed, — so poor that 
he owed money all round the country to butchers and bakers, — and the 
other fact, that he, Mr. Thumble himself, did not owe any money to 
any one, his wife luckily having a little income of her own; and, 
strengthened by these rem,embrances, he endeavoured to bear Mr. 
Crawley's attack with gallantry. 

" Of course, Mr. Crawley, you are aware that this unfortunate affair 
at Snverbridge " 

" I am not prepared, sir, to discuss the unfortunate affair at Silverbridge 
with a stranger. If you are the bearer of any message to me from the 
Bishop of Barchester, perhaps you will deliver it." 

" I havebrought a letter," said Mr. Thumble. Then Mr. Crawley 
stretched out his hand without a word, and taking the letter with him 
to the window, read it very slowly. When he had made himself master 
of its contents, he refolded the letter, placed it again in the envelope, 
and returned to the spot where Mr. Thumble was standing. " I will 
answer the bishop's letter," he said ; " I will answer it of course, as it 
is fitting that I should do. Shall I ask you to wait for my reply, or 
shall I send it by course of post 1 " 

" I think, Mr. Crawley, as the bishop wishes me to undertake the 
duty " 

'* You will not undertake the duty, Mr. Thumble. You need not 
trouble yourself, for I shall not surrender my pulpit to you." 

" But the bishop " 

" I care nothing for the bishop in this matter." So much he spoke 
in anger, and then he corrected himself. " I crave the bishop's pardon, 
and yours as his messenger, if in the heat occasioned by my strong 
feelings I have said aught which may savour of irreverence towards his 
lordship's office. I respect his lordship's high position as bishop of this 
diocese, and I bow to his commands in all things lawful. But I must 
not bow to him in things unlawful, nor must I abandon my duty before 
God at his bidding, unless his bidding be given in accordance with the 
canons of the Church and the laws of the land. It will be my duty, 
on the coming Sunday, to lead the prayers of my people in the church 
of my parish, and to preach to them from my pulpit ; and that duty, 
with God's assistance, I will perform. Not will I allow any clergyman 

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to interfere with me in the performance of those sacred offices, — no, 
not though the bishop himself should be present with the object of 
enforcing his illegal command." Mr. Crawley spoke these words without 
hesitation, even with eloquence, standing upright, and with something 
of a noble anger gleaming over his poor wan face ; and I think, that 
while speaking them, he was happier than he had been for many a 
long day. 

Mr. Thumble listened to him patiently, standing with one foot a 
little in advance of the other, with one hand folded over the other, 
with his head rather on one side, and with his eyes fixed on the corner 
where the wall and ceiling joined each other. He had been told to be 
firm, and he was considering how he might best display firmness. He 
thought that he remembered some story of two parsons fighting for one 
pulpit, and he thought also that he should not himself like to incur the 
scandal of such a proceeding in the diocese. As to the law in the 
matter he knew nothing himself ; but he presumed that a bishop would 
probably know the law better than a perpetual curate. That Mrs. 
Proudie was intemperate and imperious, he was aware. Had the 
message come from her alone, he might have felt that even for her sake 
he had better give way. But as the despotic arrogance of the lady 
had been in this case backed by the timid presence and hesitating 
words of her lord, Mr. Thumble thought that he must have the law on 
his side. " I throk you will find, Mr. Crawley," said he, " that the 
bishop's inhibition is strictly legal." He had picked up the powerful 
word from Mrs. Proudie, and flattered himself that it might be of use 
to him in carrying his purpose. 

"It is illegal," said Mr. Crawley, speaking somewhat louder than 
before, " and will be absolutely futile. As you pleaded to me that you 
yourseK and your own personal convenience were concerned in this 
matter, I have made known my intentions to you, which otherwise I 
should have made known only to the bishop. If you please, we will 
discuss the subject no further." 

" Am I to understand, Mr. Crawley, that you refuse to obey the 

" The bishop has written to me, sir ; and I will make known my 
intention to the bishop by a written answer. As you have been the 
bearer of the bishop's letter to me, I am bound to ask you whether I 
shall be indebted to you for carrying back my reply, or whether I shall 

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send it by course of post ? " Mr. Thumble considered for a moment, 
and then made up his mind that he had better wait, and carry back 
the epistle. This was Friday, and the letter could not be delivered by 
post till the Saturday morning. Mrs. Proudie might be angry with him 
if he-^ould be the cause of loss of time. He did not, however, at all 
like waiting, having perceived that Mr. Crawley, though with language 
cautiously worded, had spoken of him as a mere messenger. 

" I think," he said, " that I may, perhaps, best further the object 
which we must all have in view, that namely of providing properly for 
the Sunday services of the church of Hogglestock, by taking your reply 
personally to the bishop." 

" That provision is my care, and need trouble no one else," said Mr. 
Crawley, in a loud voice. Then, before seating himself at his old desk, 
he stood awhile, pondering, with his back turned to his visitor. " I 
have to ask your pardon^ sir," said he, looking round for a moment, 
" because, by reason of the extreme poverty of this house, my wife is 
unable to offer to you. ^ Jiospitality which is especially due from one 
clergymanto anothf 

"Oh, don't mentij^^^,./said Mr. Thumble. 

"If you will allow me, sir, I would prefer that it should be 
mentioned." Then he seated himself at his desk, and commenced his 

Mr. Thumble felt himself to be awkwardly placed. Had there been 
no third person in the room he could have sat down in Mr. Crawley's 
arm-chair, and waited patiently till the letter should be finished. But 
Mrs. Crawley was there, and of course he was bound to speak to her. 
In what strain could he do so 1 Even he, little as he was given to 
indulge in sentiment, had been touched by the man's appeal to his own 
poverty, and he felt, moreover, that Mrs. Crawley must have been 
deeply moved by her husband's position with reference to the bishop's 
order. It was quite out of the question that he should speak of that, 
as Mr. Crawley would, he was well aware, immediately turn upon him. 
At last he thought of a subject, and spoke with a voice intended to be 

" That was the school-house I passed, probably, just as I came herel" 
Mrs. Crawley told him that it was the school-house. " Ah, yes, I 
thought so. Have you a certified teacher herel" Mrs. Crawley 

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explained that no Government aid had ever reached Hogglestock. 
Besides themselves, they had only a young woman whom they them- 
selves had instructed. " Ah, that is a pity," said Mr. Thumble. 

** I,— I am the certified teacher," said Mr. Crawley, turning round 
upon him from his chair. 

" Oh, ah, yes," said Mr. Thumble ; and after that Mr. Thumble asked 
no more questions about the Hogglestock schooL Soon after- 
wards Mrs. Crawley left the room, seeing the difficulty under which 
Mr. Thumble was labouring and feeling sure that her presence would 
not now be necessary. Mr. Crawley's letter was written quickly, though 
every now and then he would sit for a moment with his pen poised in 
the air, searching his memory for a word. But the words came to him 
easily, and before an hour was over he had handed his letter to Mr. 
Thumble. The letter was as follows : 

<*^v2:-.T>mr«onage, Hoggkstock, Dec. 186—. 
** Eight Eevebbnd Lord, ■ yi^ have % o. 

"I HAVE received the lettei 'Jf^M^'^j^y's date which your 
lordship has done me the honour of sendin^^ ^^^c^ by the hands of the 
Eeverend Mr. Thumble, and I avail myself ot ^uac gentleman's kindness 
to return to you an answer by the same means, moved thus to use his 
patience chiefly by the consideration that in this way my reply to your 
lordship's injunctions may be in your hands with less delay than would 
attend the regular course of the mail-post. 

"It is with deep regret that 1 feel myself constrained to inform 
your lordship that I cannot obey the command which you have laid 
upon me with reference to the services of my church in this parish. I 
cannot permit Mr. Thumble, oif any other delegate from your lordship, 
to usurp my place in my pulpit. I would not have you to think, if I 
can possibly dispel such thoughts from your mind, that I disregard 
your high office, or that I am deficient in that respectful obedience to 
the bishop set over me which is due to the authority of the Crown as 
the head of the Church in these realms ; but in this, as in aU questions 
of obedience, he who is required to obey must examine the extent of 
the authority exercised by him who demands obedience. Your lordship 
might possibly call upon me, using your voice as bishop of the diocese, 
to abandon altogether the freehold rights which are now mine in this 

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perpetual curacy. The judge of assize, before whom I shall soon stand 
for my trial, might command me to retire to prison without a verdict 
given by the jury. The magistrates who committed me so lately as 
yesterday, upon whose decision in that respect your lordship has taken 
action against me so quickly, might have equally strained their 
authority. But in no case, in this land, is he that is subject bound to 
obey, further than where the law gives authority and exacts obedience. 
It is not in the power of the Crown itself to inhibit me from the 
performance of my ordinary duties in this parish by any such missive 
as that sent to me by your lordship. If your lordship think it right 
to stop my mouth as a clergyman in your diocese, you must proceed to 
do so in an ecclesiastical court in accordance with the laws, and will 
succeed in your object, or fail, in accordance with the evidences as to 
Uiinisterial fitness or unfitness, which may be produced respecting me 
before the proper tribunal. 

"I will allow that muc^^f^^^jjgtion is due from a clergyman to 
pastoral advice given to V |^^^,,^ bishop. On that head I must first 
express to your lordship i^y full understanding that your letter has not 
been intended to convey advice, but an order ; — an inhibition, as your 
messenger, the Reverend Mr. Thumble, has expressed it. There might 
be a case certainly in which I should submit myself to counsel, though 
I should resist command. No counsel, however, has been given, — 
except indeed that I should receive your messenger in a proper spirit, 
which I hope I have done. No other advice has been given me, and 
therefore there is now no such case as that I have imagined. But in 
this matter,, my lord, I could not have accepted advice from living man, 
no, not though' the hands of the apostles themselves had made him 
bishop who tendered it to me, and had set him over me for my guidance. 
I am in a terrible strait. Trouble, and sorrow, and danger are upon 
me and mine. It may well be, as your lordship says, that the bitter 
waters of the present hour may pass over my head and destroy me. I 
thank your lordship for telling me whither I am to look for assistance. 
Truly I know not whether there is any to be found for me on earth. 
But the deeper my troubles, the greater my sorrow, the more pressing 
my danger, the stronger is my need that I should carry myself in these 
days vdth that outward respect of self which will teach those around 
me to know that, let who will condemn me, I have not condemned 
myself "Were I to abandon my pulpit, unless forced to do so by legcl 

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means, I should in doing so be putting a plea of guilty against myself 
upon the record. This, my lord, I will not do. 

" I have -the honour to be, my lord, 

" Your lordship's most obedient servant, 

" JosiAH Crawley." 

When he had finished writing his letter he read it over slowly, and 
then handed it to Mr. Thumble. The act of writing, and the current 
of the thoughts through his brain, and the feeling that in every word 
written he was getting the better of the bishop, — all this joined to a 
certain manly delight in warfare against authority, lighted up the man's 
face and gave to his eyes an expression which had been long wanting 
to them. His wife at that moment came into the room, and he looked 
at her with an air of triumph as he handed the letter to Mr. Thumble. 
" K you will give that to his lordship with an assurance of my duty to 
his lordship in aU things proper, I will thank you kindly, craving your 
pardon for the great delay to which you have been subjected." 
" As to the delay, that is nothing," said Mr. Thumble. 
" It has been much ; but you as a clergyman will feel that it has 
been incumbent on me to speak my mind fully," 

" Oh, yes 3 of course." Mr. Crawley was standing up, as also was 
Mrs. Crawley. It was evident to Mr. Thumble that they both expected 
that he should go. But he had been specially enjoined to be firm, and 
he doubted whether hitherto he had been firm enough. As far as this 
morning's work had as yet gone, it seemed to him that Mr. Crawley 
had had the play all to himself, and that he, Mr. Thumble, had not 
had his innings. He, from the palace, had been, as it were, cowed by 
this man who had been forced to plead his own poverty. It was 
certainly incumbent upon him, before he went, to speak up, not only 
for the bishop, but for himself also. "Mr. Crawley," he said, "hitherto 
I have listened to you patiently." 

" Nay," said Mr. Crawley, smiling, " you have indeed been patient, 
and I thank you ; but my words have been written, not spoken." 

"You have told me that you intend to disobey the bishop's 

" I have told the bishop so certainly." 

" May I ask you now to listen to me for a few minutes 1 " 

Mr. Crawley, still smiling, still having in his eyes the unwonted 

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triumph which had lighted them up, paused a moment, and then 
answered him. " Keverend sir, you must excuse me if I say no, — not 
on this subject." 

" You will not let me speak ? " 

**No; not on this matter, which is very private to me. What 
should you think if I went into your house and inquired of you as to 
those things which were particularly near to you ? " 

" But the bishop sent me." 

" Though ten bishops had sent me, — a council of archbishops if yea 
will I " Mr. Thumble stfirted back, appalled at the energy of the words 
used to him. " Shall a man have nothing of his own ; — no sorrow in 
his heart, no care in his family, no thought in his breast so private and 
special to him, but that, if he happen to be a clergyman, the bishop 
may touch it with his thumb % " 

** I am not the bishop's thumb," said Mr. Thumble, drawing himself 

"I intended not to hint anything personally objectionable to 
yourself. I will regard you as one of the angels of the Church." Mr. 
Thumble, when he heard this, began to be sure that Mr. Crawley was 
mad -y he knew of no angels that could ride about the Barsetshire lanes 
on grey ponies. "And as such I will respect you; but I cannot 
discuss with you the matter of the bishop's message." 

" Oh, very well. I will tell his lordship." 

" I will pray you to do so." 

"And his lordship, should he so decide, will arm me with such 
power on my next coming as will enable me to carry out his lordship's 

"His lordship will abide by the law, — as will you also." In 
speaking these last words he stood with the door in his hand, and Mr. 
Thumble, not knowing how to increase or even to maintain his firmness, 
thought it best to pass out, and mount his grey pony and ride away. 

" The poor man thought that you were laughing at him when you 
called him an angel of the Church," said Mrs. Crawley, coming up to 
him and smiling on him. 

" Had I told him he was simply a messenger, he would have taken 
it worse I Poor fool ! When they have rid themselves of me they 
may put him here, in my church ; but not yet, — not yet. Where is 
Jane % Tell her that I am ready to commence the Seven against Thebes 


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with her." Then Jane was immediately sent for out of the school, 
and the Seven against Thebes was commenced with great energy. 
Often during the next hour and a half Mrs. Crawley from the kitchen 
would hear him reading out, or rather saying by rote, with sonorous, 
rolling voice, great passages from some chorus, and she was very 
thankful to the bishop who had sent over to them a message and a 
messenger which had been so salutary in their effect upon her husband. 
" In truth an angel of the Church," she said to herself as she chopped 
up the onions for the mutton broth ; and ever afterwards she regarded 
Mr. Thumble as an " angel." 



Grace Crawley passed through Silverbridge on her way to Allington 
on the Monday, and on the Tuesday morning Major Grantly received 
a very short note from Miss Prettyman, telling him that she had done 
80. " Dear Sir, — I think you wOl be glad to learn that our friend Miss 
Crawley went from us yesterday on a visit to her friend. Miss Dale, at 
Allington. — ^Yours truly, Annabella Prettyman." The note said no 
more than that. Major Grantly was glad to get it, obtaining from it 
that satisfaction which a man always feels when he is presumed to be 
concerned in the affairs of a lady with whom he is in love. And he 
regarded Miss Prettyman with favourable eyes, — as a discreet and 
friendly woman. Nevertheless, he was not altogether happy. The very 
fact that Miss Prettyman should write to him on such a subject made 
him feel that he was bound to Grace Crawley. He knew enough of 
himself to be sure that he could not give her up without making him- 
self miserable. And yet, as regarded her father, things were going from 
bad to worse. Everybody now said that the evidence was so strong 

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against Mr. Crawley as to leave hardly a doubt of his guilt. jiiVen the 
ladies in Silverbridge were beginning to give up his cause, acknowledg- 
ing that the money could not have (iome rightfully into his hands, and 
excusing him on the plea of partial insanity. " He has picked it up 
and put it by for months, and then thought that it was his own." The 
ladies of Silverbridge could find nothing better to say for him than that; 
and when young Mr. Walker remarked that such little mistakes were 
the customary causes of men being taken to prison, the ladies of 
Silverbridge did not know how to answer him. It had come to be 
their opinion that Mr. Crawley was aflfected with a partial lunacy, 
which ought to be forgiven in one to whom the world had been so cruel; 
and when young Mr. Walker endeavoured to explain to them that a 
man must be sane altogether or mad altogether, and that Mr. Crawley 
must, if sane, be locked up as a thief, and if mad, locked up as a 
madman, they sighed, and were convinced that until the world should 
have been improved by a new infusion of romance and a stronger feel- 
ing of poetic justice, Mr. John Walker was right. 

And the result of this general opinion made its way out to Major 
Grantly, and made its way, also, to the archdeacon at Plumstead. As 
to the major, in giving him his due, it must be explained that the more 
certain he became of the father's guilt, the more certain also he became 
of the daughter's merits. It was very hard. The whole thing was 
cruelly hard. It was cruelly hard upon him that he should be brought 
into this trouble and be forced to take upon himself the armour of a 
knight-errant for the redress of the wrong on the part of the young lady. 
But when alone in his house, or with his child, he declared to himself 
that he would do so. It might well be that he could not live in 
Barsetshire after he had married Mr. Crawley's daughter. He had 
inherited from Ms father enough of that longing for ascendancy among 
those around him to make him feel that in such circumstances he would 
be wretched. But he would be made more wretched by the self-know- 
ledge that he had behaved badly to the girl he loved ; and the world 
beyond Barsetshire was open to him. He would take ber with him to 
Canada, to New Zealand, or to some other far-away country, and there 
begin his life again. Should his father choose to punish him for so 
doing by disinheriting him, they would be poor enough ; but in his 
present frame of mind, the major was able to regard such poverty as 
honourable and not altogether disagreeable. 

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He had been out shooting all day at Chaldicotes, with Dr. Thorae 
and a party who were staying in the house there, and had been talking 
about Mr. Crawley, first with one man and then with another. Lord 
Lufbon had been there, and young Gresham from Greshambury, and 
Mr. Robarts the clergyman, and news had come among them of the 
attempt made by the bishop to stop Mr. Crawley from preaching. Mr. 
Robarts had been of opinion that Mr. Crawley should have given way ; 
and Lord Lufton, who shared his mother's intense dislike of everything 
that came from the palace, had sworn that he was right to resist. The 
sympathy of the whole party had been with Mr. Crawley ; — ^but they 
had all agreed that he had stolen the money. 

" I fear he'll have to give way to the bishop at last," Lord Lufton 
had said. 

" And what on earth will become of his children 1 " said the doctor. 
" Think of the fate of that pretty girl ; for she is a very pretty girl. 
It will be ruin to her. No man will allow himself to fall in love with 
her when her father shall have been found guilty of stealing a cheque 
for twenty pounds." 

" We must do something for the whole family," said the lord. " I 
say, Thome, you haven't half the game here that there used to be in 
poor old Sowerby's time." 

" Haven't 1 1 " said the doctor. " You see Sowerby had been at it 
all his days, and never did anything else. I only began late in life." 

The major had intended to stay and dine at Chaldicotes, but when 
he heard what was said about Grace, his heart became sad, and he made 
some excuse as to his child, and returned home. Dr. Thome had 
declared that no man could allow himself to fall in love with her. But 
what if a man had fallen in love with her beforehand 1 What if a man 
had not only fallen in love, but spoken of his love 1 Had he been alone 
with the doctor, he would, I think, have told him the whole of his 
trouble ; for in all the county there was no man whom he would sooner 
have trasted with his secret. This Dr. Thome was known far and 
wide for his soft heart, his open hand, and his well-sustained indiffer- 
ence to the world's opinions on most of those social matters with which 
the world meddles ; and therefore the words which he had spoken had 
more weight with Major Grantly than they would have had from other 
lips. As he drove home he almost made up his mind that he would 
consult Dr. Thome upon the matter. There were many younger men 

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with whom he was very intimate, — Frank Gresham, for instance, and 
Lord Lufton himself; but this was an affair which he hardly knew how 
to discuss with a young man. To Dr. Thome he thought that he could 
bring himself to tell the whole story. 

In the evening there came to him ia messenger from Plumstead, with 
a letter from his father and some present for the child. He knew at 
once that the present had been thus sent as an excuse for the letter. 
His father might have written by the post, of course ; but that would 
have given to his letter a certain air and tone which he had not wished 
it to bear. After some message from the major's mother, and some 
allusion to Edith, the archdeacon struck off upon the matter that was 
near his heart. 

" I fear it is all up with that unfortunate man at Hogglestock," he 
said. " From what I hear of the evidence which came out before the 
magistrates, there can, I think, be no doubt as to his guilt. Have you 
heard that the bishop sent over on the following day to stop him from 
preaching 1 He did so, and sent again on the Sunday. But Crawley 
would not give way, and so far I respect the man ; for as a matter of 
course, whatever the bishop did, or attempted to do, he would do with 
an extreme of bad taste, probably with gross ignorance as to lus own 
duty and as to the duty of the man under him. I am told that on the 
first day Crawley turned out of his house the messenger sent to him, — 
some stray clergyman whom Mrs. Proudie keeps about the house ; and 
that on the Sunday the stairs to the reading-desk and pulpit were occu- 
pied by a lot of brickmakers, among whom the parson from Barchester 
did not venture to attempt to make his way, although he was fortified 
by the presence of one of the cathedral vergers and by one of the palace 
footmen. I can hardly believe about the verger and the footman. As 
for the rest, I have no doubt it is all true. I pity Crawley from my 
heart. Poor, unfortunate man ! The general opinion seems to be that 
he is not in truth responsible for what he has done. As for his victory 
over the bishop, nothing on earth could be better. 

" Your mother particularly wishes you to come over to us before the 
end of the week, and to bring Edith. Your grandfather will be hece, 
and he is becoming so infirm that he will never come to us for another 
Christmas. Of course you will stay over the new year.*' 

Though the letter was full of Mr. Crawley and his affairs there was 
not a word in it about Grace. This, howsver, was quite natural M{gor 

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Grantly perfectly well understood his father's anxiety to carry his point 
without seeming to allude to the disagreeable subject. " My father is 
very clever," he said to himself, " very clever. But he isn't so clever 
but one can see how clever he is." 

On the next day he went into Silverbridge, intending to call on Miss 
Prettyman. He had not quite made up his mind what he would say 
to Miss Prettyman ; nor was he called upon to do so, as he never got 
as far as that lady's house. "While walking up the High Street he saw 
Mrs. Thorne in her carriage, and, as a matter of course, he stopped to 
speak to her. He knew Mrs. Thome quite as intimately as he did her 
husband, and liked her quite as well. " Major Grantly," she said, 
speaking out loud to him, half across the street ; " I was very angry 
with you yesterday. Why did you not come up to dinner ? We had 
a room ready for you and everything." 

" I was not quite well, Mrs. Thorne." 

" Fiddlestick. Don't tell me of not being welL There was Emily 
breaking her heart about you." 

*' I'm sure Miss Dunstable " 

"To teU you the truth, I think she'll get over it. It won't be 
mortal with her. But do tell me. Major Grantly, what are we to think 
about this poor Mr. Crawley 1 It was so good of you to be one of his 

** He would have found twenty in Silverbridge, if he had wanted 

" And do you hear that he has defied the bishop 1 I do so like him 
for that. Not but what poor Mrs. Proudie is the dearest friend I have 
in the world, and I'm always fighting a battle with old Lady Lufton 
on her behalf. But one likes to see one's friends worsted sometimes, 
you know." 

"I don't quite understand what did happen at Hogglestock on 
Sunday," said the major. 

" Some say he had the bishop's chaplain put under the pump. I 
don't believe that ; but there is no doubt that when the poor fellow 
tried to get into the pulpit, they took him and carried him neck and 
heels out of the church. But, teU me, Major Grantly, what is to 
become of the family 1 " 

" Heaven knows ! " 

«* Is it not sad 1 And that ddest girl is so nice ! They tell me that 

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she is perfect, — ^not only in beauty, but in manners and accomplishmentgt. 
Everybody says that she talks Greek just as well as she does English, 
and that she understands philosophy from the top to the bottom." 

" At any rate, she is so good and so lovely that one cannot but pity 
her now," said the major. 

" You know her, then, Major Grantly 1 By-the-by, of course you do, 
as you were staying with her at Eramley." 

"Yes, I know her." 

** What is to become of her ? Tm going your way. You might as 
well get into the carriage, and Til drive you home. If he is sent to 
prison, — and they say he must be sent to prison, — what is to become 
of them ] " Then Major Grantly did get into the carriage, and, before 
he got out again, he had told Mrs. Thorne the whole story of his love. 

She listened to him with the closest attention ; only interrupting him 
now and then with little words, intended to signify her approvaL He, 
as he told his tale, did not look her in the face, but sat with his eyes 
fixed upon her muff. " And now," he said, glancing up at her almost 
for the first time as he finished his speech, " and now, Mrs. Thorne, 
what am I to do ] " 

" Marry her, of course," said she, raising her hand aloft and bringing 
it down heavily upon his knee as she gave her decisive reply. 

"H — sh — ^h," he exclaimed, looking back in dismay towards the 

" Oh, they never hear anything up there. They're thinking about 
the last pot of porter they had, or the next they're to get. Deary me, 
I am so glad ! Of course you'll marry her." 

" You forget my father." 

** No, I don't. What has a father to do with it 1 You're old enough 
to please yourself without asking any father. Besides, Lord bless me, 
the archdeacon isn't the man to bear malice. He'll storm and threaten, 
and stop the supplies for a month or so. Then he'U double them, and 
take your wife to his bosom, and kiss her and bless her, and all that 
kind of thing. We all know what parental wrath means in such cases 
as that." 

" But my sister " 

" As for your sister, don't talk to me about her. \ don't care two 
straws about your sister. You must excuse me. Major Grantly, but 
Lady Hartletop is really too big for my powers of vision." 

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- "And Edith,— of course, Mrs. Thorne, I can't be blind to the fact 
that in many ways such a marriage would be iDJurious to her. Xo man . 
wishes to be connected with a convicted thief." 

" No, Major Grantly ; but a man does wish to marry the girl that he 
loves. At least, I suppose so. And what man ever was able to give a 
more touching proof of ^is affection than you can do now 1 If I were 
you, I'd be at Allington before twelve o'clock to-morrow, — I woidd 
indeed. What does it matter about the trumpery cheque ] Everybody 
knows it was a mistake, if he did take it. And surely you would not 
punish her for that." 

"No, — no ; but I don't suppose she'd think it a punishment." 

" You go and ask her, then. And I'll tell you what. If she hasn t 
a house of her own to be married from, she shall be married from 
Chaldicotes. We'll have such a breakfast ! And I'll make as much of 
her as if she were the daughter of my old Mend the bishop himself ; — 
I will indeed." 

This was Mrs. Thome's advice. Before it was completed. Major 
Grantly had been carried half-way to Chaldicotes. When he left his 
impetuous friend he was too prudent to make any promise, but he 
declared that what she had said should have much weight with him. 

" You won't mention it to anybody % " said the major. 

" Certainly not, without your leave," said Mrs. Thorne. " Don't you 
know that I'm the soul of honour 1 " 



Some kind and attentive reader may perhaps remember that Miss 
Grace Ci-awley, in a letter written by her to her friend Miss Lily Dale, 
said a word or two of a certain John. "If it can only be as John 
wishes it ! " And the same reader, if there be o*ne so kind and attentive, 

VOL. I. K 

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may also remember that Miss Lily Dale had declared, in reply, that 
" about that other subject she would rather say nothing," — and then 
she had added, " When one thinks of going beyond friendship, — if one 
tries to do so, — ^there are so many barriers ! '* From which words the 
kind and attentive reader, if such reader be in such matters intelligent 
as well as kind and attentive, may have learned a great deal with 
reference to Miss Lily Dale. 

We will now pay a visit to the John in question, — a certain Mr. John 
Eames, living in London, a bachelor, as the intelligent reader will 
certainly have discovered, and cousin to Miss Grace Crawley. Mr. 
j'ohn Eames at the time of our story was a young man, some seven or 
eight and twenty years of age, living in London, where he was supposed 
by his friends in the country to have made his mark, and to be some- 
thing a little out of the common way. But I do not know that he 
was very much out of the common way, except in the fact that he had 
had some few thousand pounds left him by an old nobleman, who had 
been in no way related to him ; but who had regarded him with great 
affection, and who haidied some two years since. Before this, John 
Eames had not been a very poor man, as he filled the comfortable official 
position of private secretary to the Chief Commissioner of the Income- 
tax Board, and drew a salary of three hundred and fifty pounds a year 
from the resources of his country ; but when, in addition to this source 
of official wealth, he became known as the undoubted possessor of a 
hundred and twenty-eight shares in one of the most prosperous joint- 
stock banks in the metropolis, which property had been left to him free 
of legacy duty by the lamented nobleman above named, then Mr. John 
Eames rose very high indeed as a young man in the estimation of those 
who knew him, and was supposed to be something a good deal out of 
the common way. His mother, who lived in the country, was obedient ' 
to his slightest word, never venturing to impose upon him any sign of 
parental authority ; and to his sister, Mary Eames, who lived with her 
mother, he was almost a god upon earth. To sisters who have nothing 
of their own, — not even some special god for their own individual 
worship, — generous, affectionate, unmarried brothers, with sufficient 
incomes, are gods upon earth. 

And even up in London Mr. John Eames was somebody. He was 
so especially at his office; although, indeed, it was remembered by many 
a man how raw a lad he had been when he first came there, not so very 

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many years ago ; and how they had laughed at him and played him tricks ; 
and how he had customarily been known to be without a shilling for 
the last week before pay-day, daring which period he would borrow 
sixpence here and a shilling there with great energy, from men who 
now felt themselves to be honoured when he smiled upon them. Little 
stories of his former days would often be told of him behind his back ; 
but they were not told with ill-nature, because he was very constant in 
referring to the same matters himself. And it was acknowledged by 
every one at the office, that neither the friendship of the nobleman, nor 
the fact of the private secretaryship, nor the acquisition of his wealth, 
had made him proud to his old companions or forgetful of old friend- 
ships. To the young men, lads who had lately been appointed, he was 
perhaps a little cold ; but then it was only reasonable to conceive that 
such a one as Mr. John Eames was now could not be expected to 
make an intimate acquaintance with every new clerk that might be 
brought into the office. Since competitive examinations had come into 
vogue there was no knowing who might be introduced ; and it was 
understood generally through the establishment,— -and I may almost say 
by the civil service at large, so wide was his fame, — that Mr. Eames 
was very averse to the whole theory of competition. The ** Devil take 
the hindmost " scheme, he called it ; and would then go on to explain 
that hindmost candidates were often the best gentlemen, and that, in 
this way, the Devil got the pick of the flock. And he was respected the 
more for this opinion, because it was known that on this subject he had 
fought some hard battles with the chief commissioner. The chief com- 
missioner was a great believer in competition, wrote papers about it, 
which he read aloud to various bodies of the civil service, — not at all 
to their delight, — which he got to be printed here and there, and which 
he sent by post all over the kingdom. More than once this chief 
commissioner had told his private secretary that they must part company 
unless the private secretary could see fit to alter his view, or could, at 
least, keep his views to himself. But the private secretary would do 
neither; and, nevertheless, there he was, still private secretary. 
" It's because Johnny has got money," said one of the young clerks, 
who was discussing this singular state of things with his brethren 
at the office. " When a chap has got money, he may do what he likes. 
Johnny has got lots of money, you know.'* The young clerk in question 
was by no means on intimate terms with Mr. Eames, but there had 


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grown up in the office a way of calling him Johnny behind his hack, 
which had probably come down from the early days of his scrapes, and 
his poverty. 

Now the entire life of Mr. John Eames was pervaded by a great 
secret ; and although he never, in those days, alluded to the subject in 
conversation with any man belonging to the office, yet the secret was 
known to them all. It had been historical for the last four or five 
years, and was now regarded as a thing of course. Mr. John Eames 
was in love, and his love was not happy. He was in love, and had 
long been in love, and the lady of his love was not kind to him. The 
little history had grown to be very touching and pathetic, having 
received, no doubt, some embellishments from the imaginations of the 
gentlemen of the Income-tax Office. It was said of him that he had 
been in love from his early boyhood, that at sixteen he had been 
engaged, under the sanction of the nobleman now deceased and of the 
young lady's parents, that contracts of bettothals had been drawn up, 
and things done very unusual in private families in these days, and 
that then there had come a stranger into the neighbourhood just as the 
young lady was beginning to reflect whether she had a heart of her own 
or not, and that she had thrown her parents, and the noble lord, and 

the contract, and poor Johnny Eames to the winds, and had . 

Here the story took different directions as told by different men. Some 
said the lady had gone off with the stranger, and that there had been 
a clandestine marriage, which afterwards turned out to be no marriage 
at all ; others, that the stranger suddenly took himself off, and was no 
more seen by the young lady ; others, that he owned at last to having 
another wife, — and so on. The stranger was very well known to he 
one Mr. Crosbie, belonging to another public office ; and there were 
circumstances in his life, only half known, which gave rise to these 
various rumours. But there was one thing certain, one point as to 
which no clerk in the Income-tax Office had a doubt, one fact which 
had conduced much to the high position which Mr. John Eames now 
held in the estimation of his brother clerks, —he had given this Mr. 
Crosbie such a thrashing that no man had ever received such treatment 
before and had lived through it. Wonderful stories were told about 
that thrashing, so that it was believed, even by the least enthusiastic 
in such matters, that the poor victim had only dragged on a crippled 
existence since the encounter. " For nine weeks he never said a word 

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nor eat a mouthful," said one young clerk to a younger clerk who was 
just entering the office ; " and even now he can't speak above a whisper, 
and has to take all his food in pap." It will be seen, therefore, that 
Mr. John Eames had about him much of the heroic. 

That he was still in love, and in love with the same lady, was known 
to every one in the office. When it was declared of him that in the 
way of amatory expressions he had never in his life opened his mouth 
to another woman, there were those in the office who knew that this 
was an exaggeration. Mr. Cradell, for instance, who in his early years 
had been very intimate with John Eames, and who still kept up the 
old friendship, — although, being a domestic man, with a wife and six 
young children, and living on a small income, he did not go much out 
among his friends, — could have told a very different story ; for Mrs. 
Cradell herself had, in days before Cradell had made good his claim 
upon her, been not unadmired by Cradell's fellow-clerk. But the con- 
stancy of Mr. Eames's present love was doubted by none who knew 
hiuL It was not that he went about with his stockings ungartered, or 
any of the old acknowledged signs of unrequited affection. In his 
manner he was rather jovial than otherwise, and seemed to live a 
happy, somewhat luxurious life, well contented with himself and the 
world around him. But still he had this passion within his bosom, and 
I am inclined to think that he was a little proud of his own constancy. 

It might be, presumed that when Miss Dale wrote to her friend Grace 
Crawley about going beyond friendship, pleading that there were so 
many " barriers," she had probably seen her way over most of them. 
But this was not so ; nor did John Eames himself at all believe that 
the barriers were in a way to be overcome. I wiU not say that he had 
given the whole thing up as a bad job, because it was the law of his 
life that the thing never shoijld be abandoned as long as hope was 
possible. Unless Miss Dale should become the wife of somebody else, 
he would always regard himself as affianced to her. He had so 
declared to Miss Dale herself and to Miss Dale's mother and to aU the 
Dale people who had ever been ipterested in the matter. And there 
was an old lady living in Miss Dale's neighbourhood, the sister of the 
lord who had left Johnny Eames the bank shares, who always fought 
his battles for him, and kept a close look-out, fully resolved that John 
Eames should be rewarded at last. This old lady was connected with 
the Dales by family ties, and therefore had means of close observation. 

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She was in constant correspondence with John Eaines, and never failed 
to acquaint him when any of the barriers were, in her judgment, giving 
way. The nature of some of the barriers may possibly be made 
intelligible to my readers by the following letter from Lady Julia De 
Guest to her young friend. 

"Guestwick Cottage, December, 186—. 

" My dear John, — I am much obliged to you for going to Joneses. I 
send stamps for two shillings and fourpence, which is what I owe you. 
It used only to bo two shillings and twopence, but they say everything 
has got to be dearer now, and I suppose pills as well as other things. 
Only think of Pritchard coming to me, and saying she wanted her 
wages raised, after living with me for twenty years ! I was very angry, 
and scolded her roundly; but as she acknowledged she had been 
wrong, and cried and begged my pardon, I did give her two guineas a 
year more. 

" I saw dear Lily just for a moment on Sunday, and upon my word 
I think she grows prettier every year. She had a young friend with 
her, — a Miss Crawley, — ^who, I believe, is the cousin I have heard you 
speak o£ What is this sad story about her father, the clergyman^ 
Mind you tell me all about it. 

" It is quite true what I told you about the De Courcys. Old Lady 
De Courcy is in London, and Mr. Crosbie is going to law with her 
about his wife's money. He has been at it in one way or the other 
ever since poor Lady Alexandrina died. I wish she had lived, with all 
my heart. For though I feel siu^ that our lily will never willingly 
see him agaiu, yet the tidings of her death disturbed her, and set her 
thinking of things that were fading from her mind. I rated her 
soundly, not mentioning your name, however ; but she only kissed me, 
and told me in her quiet droUing way that I didn't mean a word of 
what I said. 

" You can come here whenever you please after the tenth of January. 
But if you come early in January you must go to your mother first, 
and come to me for the last week of your holiday. Go to Blackie's in 
Regent Street, and bring me down all the colours in wool that I 
ordered. I said you would calL And tell them at Dolland's the last 
spectacles don't suit at all, and I won't keep them. They had better 
send me down, by you, one or two more pairs to try. And you had 

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better see Smi there and Smith, in Lincoln's Inn Fields, No. 57 — hut 
you have been there before, — and beg them to let me know how my 
poor dear brother's mattere are to be settled at last. As far as I can 
see I shall be dead before I shall know what income I have got to 
spend. As to my cousins at the manor, I never see them ; and as to 
talking to them about business, I should not dream of it. She hasp't 
come to me since she firet called, and she may be quite sure I shan't go 
to her till she does. Indeed I think we shall like each other apart 
quite as much as we should together. So let me know when you're 
coming, and pray don't forget to call at Blackie's; nor yet at DoUand's, 
which is much more important than the wool because of my eyes 
getting so weak. But what I want you specially to remember is about 
Smithers and Smith. How is a woman to live if she doesn't know how 
much she has got to spend ) 

" Believe me to be, my dear John, 

" Your most sincere friend, 

"Julia Db Gubst.*' 

Ijady Julia always directed her lettera for her young friend to his 
office, and there he received the one now given to the reader. When 
he had read it he made a memorandum as to the conmiissions, and 
then threw himself back in his arm-chair to think over the tidings 
communicated to him. All the facts stated he had known before ; that 
Lady De Courcy was in London, and that her son-in-law, Mr. Crosbie, 
whose wife, — Lady Alexandrina, — had died some twelve months since 
at* Baden Baden, was at variance with her respecting money which he 
supposed to be due to him. But there was that in Lady Julia's letter 
-which was wormwood to him. Lily Dale was again thinking of this 
man, whom she had loved in old days, and who had treated her with 
monstrous perfidy ! It was all very well for Lady Julia to be sure that 
Lily Dale would never desire to see Mr. Crosbie again; but John 
Eames was by no means equally certain that it would be so. " The 
tidings of her death disturbed her !" said Johnny, repeating to himself 
certain words out of the old lady's letter. "I know they disturbed me. 
I wish she could have lived for ever. If he ever ventures to show 
himself within ten miles of AUington, I'll see if I cannot do better than 
I did the last time I met him ! " Then there came a knock at the door, 
and the private secretary, finding himself to be somewhat annoyed by 

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the disturbance at such a moment, bade the intruder enter in angry 
voice. " Oh, it's you, Cradell, is it ? What can I do for you ? " Mr. 
Cradell, who now entered, and who, as before said, was an old ally of 
John Eames, was a clerk of longer standing in the department than his 
friend. In age he looked to be much older, and there remained with 
him none of that appearance of the gloss of youth which will stick for 
many years to men who are fortunate in their worldly affairs. Indeed 
it may be said that Mr. Cradell was almost shabby in his outward 
appearance, and his brow seemed to be laden with care, and his eyes 
were dull and heavy. 

"I thought I'd just come in and ask you how you are," said 

" I'm pretty jrell, thank you ; and how are you ? " 

" Oh, I'm pretty well, — in health, that is. You see one has so many 
things to think of when one has a large family. Upon my word, 
Johnny, I think you've been lucky to keep out of it." 

" I have kept out of it, at any rate ; haven't I ? " 

" Of course ; living with you as much as I used to do, I know the 
whole story of what has kept you single." 

" Don't mind about that, Cradell. What is it you want % " 

" I mustn't let you suppose, Johnny, that I'm grumbling about my 
lot. Nobody knows better than you what a trump I got in my 

** Of course you did ; — an excellent woman.'* 

" And if I cut you out a little there, I'm sure you never felt malice 
against me for that." 

" Never for a moment, old fellow." 

" We have all our own luck, you know." 

" Your luck has been a wife and family. My luck has been to be a 

** You may say a family," said CradeU. " I'm sure that Amelia does 
the best she can ; but we are desperately pushed sometimes, — desperately 
pushed. I never was so bad, Johnny, as I am now." 

" So you said the last time." 

" Did 1% I don't remember it. I didn't think I was so bad then. 
But, Johnny, if you can let me have one more fiver now I have made 
arrangements with Amelia how I'm to pay you off by thirty shillings 
a month, — as I get my salary. Indeed I have. Ask her else." 

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"in be shot if I do." 

"Don't say that, Johnny." 

" It's no good your Johnnying me, for I won't be Johnnyed out 
of another shilling. It comes too often, and there's no reason why I 
should do it. And what's more, I can't afford it. I've people of my 
own to help." 

" But oh, Johnny, we all know how comfortable you are. And I'm 
sure no one rejoiced as I did when the money was left to you. If it 
had been myself I could hardly have thought more of it. Upon my 
solemn word and honour if you'll let me have it this time, it shall be 
the last." 

" Upon my word and honour then, I won't. There must be an end 
to everything." 

Although Mr. Cradell would probably, if pressed, have admitted the 
truth of this last assertion, he did not seem to think that the end had 
as yet come to his friend's benevolence. It certainly had not come to 
his own importunity. " Don't say that, Johnny ; pray don't." 

« But I do say it." 

" When I told Amelia yesterday evening that I didn't like to go to 
you again, because of course a man has feelings, she told me to mention 
her name. * I'm sure he'd do it for my sake,' she said." 

" 1 don't believe she said anything of the kind." 

" Upon my word she did. You ask her." 

'* And if she did, she oughtn't to have said it." 

" Oh, Johnny, don't speak in that way of her. She's my wife, and 
you know what your own feelings were once. But look here, — we are 
in that state at home at this moment, that I must get money somewhere 
before I go home. I must, indeed. If you'll let me have three pounds 
this once, I'll never ask you again. I'll give you a written promise if 
ybn like, and I'll pledge myself to pay it back by thirty shillings a 
time out of the two next months' salary. I will, indeed." And then 
Mr. Cradell began to cry. But when Johnny at last took out his cheque- 
book and wrote a cheque for three pounds, Mr. Cradell's eyes glistened 
with joy. " Upon my word I am so much obliged to you ! You are 
the best fellow that ever lived. And Amelia wiU say the same when 
she hears of it." 

"I don't believe she'll say anything of the kind, Cradell. If I 
remember anything of her, she has a stouter heart than that." Cradell 

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admitted that his wife had a stouter heart than himself^ and then made 
his way back to his own part of the ofl&ce. 

This little interruption to the current of Mr. Eames's thoughts was, 
I think, for the good of the service, as, immediately on his friend's 
departure, he went to his work ; whereas, had not he been thus called 
away from his reflections about Miss Dale, he would have sat thinking 
about her affairs probably for the rest of the morning. As it was, lie 
really did write a dozen notes in answer to as many private letters 
addressed to his chief, Sir Kaffle Buffle, in ail of which he made 
excellently-worded false excuses for the non-performance of various 
requests made to Sir Raffle by the writers. " He's about the best hand 
at it that I know," said Sir Raffle, one day to the secretary ; *' otherwise 
you may be sure I shouldn't keep him there." " I will allow that lie 
is clever," said the secretary. " It isn't cleverness, so much as tact. 
It's what I call tact. I hadn't been long in the service before I mastered 
it myself ; and now that I've been at the trouble to teach him I don't 
want to have the trouble to teach another. But upon my word he must 
mind his^s and q*a ; upon my word he must ; and you had better tell 
him so." " The fact is, Mr. Kissing," said the private secretary the 
next day to the secretary, — Mr. Kissing was at that time secretary to 
the board of commissioners for the receipt of income tax — " The fact 
is, Mr. Eassing, Sir Raffle should never attempt to write a letter himself. 
He doesn't know how to do it. He always says twice too much, and 
yet not half enough. I wish you'd tell him so. He won't believe me." 
From which it wiU be seen Mr. Eames was proud of his special accom- 
plishment, but did not feel any gratitude to the master who assumed 
to himself the glory of having taught him. On the present occasion 
John Eames wrote all his letters before he thought again of Lily Dale, 
and was able to write them without interruption, as the ohairman was 
absent for the day at the Treasury, — or perhaps at his club. Then, 
when he had finished, he rang his bell, and ordered some sherry and 
soda-water, and stretched himself before the fire, — as though his exertions 
in the public service had been very great, — and seated himself comfort- 
ably in his arm-chair, and lit a cigar, and again took out Lady Julia's 

As regarded the cigar, it may be said that both Sir Raffle and Mr. 
Kissing had given orders that on no account should cigars be lit within 
the precincts of the Income-tax Office. Mr. Eames had taken upon 

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UP IN LONDOl/. 139 

himself to understand that such orders did not apply to a private 
secretary, and was well aware that Sir Raffle knew His habit. To Mr. 
Kissing, I regret to say, he put himself in opposition whenever and 
wherever opposition was possible ; so that men in the office said that 
one of the two must go at last. " But Johnny can do anything, you 
know, because he has got money." That was too frequently the opinion 
finally expressed among the men. 

So John Eames sat down, and drank his soda-water, and smoked his 
cigar, and read his letter ; or rather, simply that paragraph of the letter 
which referred to Miss Dale. " The tidings of her death have disturbed 
her, and set her thinking again of things that were fading from her 
mind." He understood it all. And yet how could it possibly be so 1 
How could it be that she should not despise a man, — despise him if 
she did not hate him, — ^who had behaved as this man had behaved to 
her] It was now four years since this Crosbie had been engaged to 
Miss Dale, and had jilted her so heartlessly as to incur the disgust of 
every man in London who had heard the story. He had married an 
earl's daughter who had left him within a few months of their marriage, 
and now Mr. Crosbie's noble wife was dead. The wife was dead and 
simply because the man was free again, he, John Eames, wa§ to be told 
that Miss Dale's mind was " disturbed," and that her thoughts were 
going back to things which had faded from her memory, and which 
should have been long since banished altogether from such holy 

If Lily Dale were now to marry Mr. Crosbie, anything so perversely 
cruel as the fate of John Eames would never yet have been told in 
romance. That was his own idea on the matter as he sat smoking his 
cigar. I have said that he was proud of his constancy, and yet, in some 
sort, he was also ashamed of ifc. He acknowledged the fact of his love, 
and believed himself to have out-Jacobed Jacob ; but he felt that it was 
hard for a man who had risen in the world as he had done to be made 
a plaything of by a foolish passion. It was now four years ago, — that 
affair of Crosbie, — ^and Miss Dale should have accepted him long since. 
Half-a-dozen times he had made up his mind to be very stern to her ; 
and he had written somewhat sternly, — but the first moment that he 
saw her he was conquered again. " And now that brute will reappear, 
and everything will be wrong again," he said to himself. If the brute 
did reappear, something should happen of which the world should hear 

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the tidings. So he lit another cigar, and began to think what that 
something should be. 

As he did so he heard a loud noise, as of harsh, rattling winds in the 
next room, and he knew that Sir Raffle had come back from the Treasury. 
There was a creaking of boots, and a knocking of chairs, and a ringing 
of bells, and then a loud angry voice, — a voice that was very harsh, and 
on this occasion very angry. Why had not his twelve-o'clock letters 
been sent up to him to the West End 1 Why not ? Mr. Eames knew 
all about it. Why did Mr. Eames know all about it ? Why had not 
l^Ir. Eames sent them up % Where was Mr. Eames 1 Let Mr. Eames 
be sent to him. All which Mr. Eames heard standing with the cigar 
in his mouth and his back to the fire. " Somebody has been bullying 
old Buffle, I suppose. After all, he has been at the Treasury to-day," 
said Eames to himself. But he did not stir till the messenger had been 
to him, nor even then, at once. " All right, Rafferty," he said ; " Til go 
in just now." Then he took half-a-dozen more whifFs from the cigar, 
threw the remainder into the fire, and opened the door which 
communicated between his room and Sir Raffle's. 

The great man was standing with two unopened epistles in his hand. 

" Eames," said he, " here are letters " Then he stopped himself, 

and began upon another subject. " Did I not give express orders that 
I would have no smoking in the office ? " 

" I think Mr. Kissing said something about it, sir." 

** Mr. Kissing ! It was not Mr. Kissing at all. It was I. I gave 
the order myself." 

" You'll find it began with Mr. Kissing." 

" It did not begin with Mr. Kissing ; it began and ended with me. 
What are you going to do, sir?" John Eames had stepped towards 
the bell, and his hand was already on the bell-pull. 

" I was going to ring for the papers, sir." 

" And who told you to ring for the papers ? I don't want the papers. 
The papers won't show anything. I suppose my word may be taken 
without the papers. Since you're so fond of Mr. Kissing " 

" I'm not fond of Mr. Kissing at all." 

" You'll have to go back to him, and let somebody come here who 
will not be too independent to obey my orders. Here are two most 
important letters have been lying here all day, instead of being sent up 
to me at the Treasury." 

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" Of course they have been lying there. I thought you were at the 

" I told you I should go to the Treasury. I have been there all the 
morning with the chancellor," — when Sir Kaffle spoke officially of the 
chancellor he was not supposed to mean the Lord Chancellor — " and 
here I find letters which I particularly wanted lying upon my desk now. 
I must put an end to this kind of thing. I must, indeed. .If you like 
the outer office better say so at once, and you can go." 

" I'U think about it, Sir Eaffle." 

" Think about it ! What do you mean by thinking about it ? But 
I can't talk about that now. I*m very busy, and shall be here till past 
seven. I suppose you can stay 1 " 

" All night, if you wish it, sir." 

" Very well. That will do for the present. — I wouldn't have had 
these letters delayed for twenty pounds." 

" I don't suppose it would have mattered one straw if both of them 
remained unopened till next week." 

This last little speech, however, was not made aloud to Sir Eaffle, but 
by Johnny to himself in the solitude of his own room. 

Very soon after that he went away, Sir Raffle having discovered that 
one of the letters in question required his immediate return to the West 
End. " I've changed my mind about staying. I shan't stay now. I 
should have done if these letters had reached me as they ought." 

" Then I suppose I can go % " 

" You can do as you like about that," said Sir Eaffle. 

Eames did do as he liked, and went home, or to his club ; and as he 
went he resolved that he would put an end, and at once, to the present 
trouble of his life. Lily Dale should accept him or reject him ; and, 
taking either the one or the other alternative, she should hear a bit of 
his mind plainly spoken. 

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It was Christmas-time down at Allington, and at three o'clock on 
Christmas Eve, just as the darkness of the early winter evening was 
coming on, Lily Dale and Grace Crawley were seated together, one above 
the other, on the steps leading up to the pulpit in Allington Church, 
They had heen working all day at the decorations of the church, and 
they were now looking round them at the result of their handiwork. 
To an eye unused to the gloom the place would have been nearly dark ; 
but they could see every corner turned by the ivy sprigs, and every line 
on which the holly-leaves were shining. And the greeneries of the 
winter had not been stuck up in the old-fashioned, idle way, a bough 
just fastened up here and a twig inserted there ; but everything had 
been done with some meaning, with some thought towards the original 
architecture of the building. The Gothic lines had been followed, and 
all the lower arches which it had been possible to reach with an ordinary 
ladder had been turned as truly with the laurel cuttings as they had 
been turned originally with the stone. 

"I wouldn't tie another twig," said the elder girl, "for all the 
Christmas pudding that was ever boiled." 

" It's lucky then that there isn't another twig to tie." 

" I don't know about that. I see a score of places where the work 
has been scamped. This is the sixth time I have done the church, and 
I don't think I'll ever do it again. When we first began it, Bell and 
I, — before Bell was married, — Mrs' Boyce, and the Boycian establish- 
ment generally, used to come and help. Or rather w<b used to help her. 
Now she hardly ever looks after it at all." 

" She is older, I suppose." 

" She's a little older, and a deal idler. How idle people do get ! 

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Look at him. Since he has had a curate he hardly ever stirs round 

the parish. And he is getting so fat that H — sh ! Here she is 

herself, — come to give her judgment upon us." Then a stout lady, the 
wife of the vicar, walked slowly up the aisle. ** Well, girls,'' she said, 
" you have worked hard, and I am sure Mr. Boyce will be very much 
obliged to you." 

" Mr. Boyce, indeed ! " said Lily Dale. " We shall expect the whole 
parish to rise from their seats and thank us. Why didn't Jane and 
Bessy come and help us ? " 

" They were so tired when they came in from the coal club. Besides, 
they don't care for this kind of thing, — not as you do." 

" Jane is utilitarian to the backbone, I know," said Lily, " and Bessy 
doesn't like getting up ladders." 

'* As for ladders," said Mrs. Boyce, defending her daughter, " I am 
not quite sure that Bessy isn't right. You don't mean to say that you 
did all those in the capitals yourself 1 " 

" Every twig, with Hopkins to hold the ladder and cut the sticks ; 
and as Hopkins is just a hundred and one years old, we could have done 
it pretty nearly as well alone." 

" I do not think that," said Grace. 

" He has been grumbling all the time," said Lily, " and swears he 
never will have the laurels so robbed again. Five or six years ago he 
used to declare that death would certainly save him from the pain of 
such another desecration before the next Christmas ; but he has given 
up that foolish notion now, and talks as though he meant to protect 
the Allington shrubs at any rate to the end of this century. " 

" I am sure we gave our share from the parsonage," said Mrs. Boyce, 
who never understood a joke. 

*• All the best came from the parsonage, as of course they ought," said 
Lily. " But Hopkins had to make up the deficiency.^ And as my uncle 
told him to take the hay-cart for them instead of the hand-barrow, he is 
broken-hearted." ^ 

" I am sure he was very good-natured," j^id Grace. 

*' Nevertheless he is broken-hearted; and I am very good-natured 
too, and I am broken-backed. Who is going to preach to-morrow 
morning, Mrs. Boyce 1" 

" Mr. Swanton will preach in the morning." 

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" Tell him not to be long, because of the children's pudding. Tell 
Mr. Boyce if Mr. Swanton is long, we won't any of us come next. 

" My dear, how can you say such wicked things ! I shall not tell 
him anything of the kind." 

" That's not wicked, Mrs. Boyce. If I were to say I had eaten so 
much lunch that I didn't want any dinner, you'd understand that. If 
Mr. Swanton will preach for three-quarters of an hour " 

** He only preached for three-quarters of an hour once, Lily." 

" He has been over the half-hour every Sunday since he has been 
here. His average is over forty minutes, and I say it's a shame." 

" It is not a shame at all, Lily," said Mrs. Boyce, becoming very 

" Look at my uncle ; he doesn't like to go to sleep, and he has to 
suffer a purgatory in keeping himself awake." 

" If your uncle is heavy, how can Mr. Swanton help it ? If Mr. Dale's 
mind were on the subject he would not sleep." 

" Come, Mrs. Boyce ; there's somebody else sleeps sometimes besides 
my uncle. When Mr. Boyce puts up his finger and just touches his 
nose I know as well as possible why he does it." ' 

" Lily Dale, you have no business to say so. It is not true. I don't 
know how you can bring yourself to talk in that way of your own clergy- 
man. If I were to tell your mamma she would be shocked." 

" You won't be so ill-natured, Mrs. Boyce, — after all that I've done 
for the church." 

" If you'd think more about the clergyman, Lily, and less about the 
church," said Mrs. Boyce very sententiously, "more about the matter and 
less about the manner, more of the reality and less of the form, I think 
you'd find that your religion would go further with you. Miss Crawley 
is the daughter of a clergyman, and I'm sure she'll agree with mo." 

" If she agrees with anybody in scolding me I'U quarrel with her." 

" I didn't mean to scold you, Lily." 

" I don't mind it from you, Mrs. Boyce. Indeed, I rather like it. It is 
a sort of pastoral visitation ; and as Mr. Boyce never scolds me himself, 
of course I take it as coming from him by attorney." Then there was 
silence for a minute or two, during which Mrs. Boyce was endeavouring 
to discover whether Miss Dale was laughing at her or not. As she was 
not quite certain, she thought at last that she would let the suspected 

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fault pass unobserved. "Don't wait for us, Mrs. Boyce," said Lily. 
" We must remain till Hopkins has sent Gregory to sweep the church 
out and take away the rubbish. We'll see that the key is left at Mrs. 

" Thank you, my dear. Then I may as well go. I thought Fd come 
in and see that it was all right. I'm sure Mr. Boyce will be very much 
obliged to you and Miss Crawley. Good-night, my dear." 

" Good-night, Mrs. Boyce ; and be sure you don't let Mr. Swanton 
be long to-morrow." To this parting shot Mrs. Boyce made no re- 
joinder ; but she hurried out of the church somewhat the quicker for it, 
and closed the door after her with something of a slam. 

Of all persons clergymen are the most irreverent in the handling of 
things supposed to be sacked, and next to them clergymen's wives, and 
after them those other ladies, old or young, who take upon themselves 
semi-clerical duties. And it is natural that it should be so ; for is it 
not said that familiarity does breed contempt ] When a parson takes 
his lay friend over his church on a week-day, how much less of the 
spirit of genuflexion and head-uncovering the cleryman will display 
than the layman I The parson pulls about the woodwork and knocks 
about the stonework, as though it were mere wood and stone ; and talks 
aloud in the aisle, and treats even the reading-desk as a common thing ; 
whereas the visitor whispers gently, and carries himself as though even 
in looking at a church he was bound to regard himself as performing 
some service that was half divine. Now Lily Dale and Grace Crawley 
were both accustomed to churches, and had been so long at work in 
this church for the last two days, that the building had lost to them 
much of its sacredness, and they were almost as irreverent as though 
they were two curates. 

" I am so glad she has gone," said LUy. " We shall have to stop here 
for the next hour as Gregory won't know what to take away and what 
to leave. I was so afraid she was going to stop and see us off the 

" I don't know why you should dislike her." 

" I don't dislike her. I like her very well," said Lily Dale. " But 
don't you feel that there are people whom one knows very intimately, 
who are really friends, — for whom if they were dying one would grieve, 
whom if they were in misfortune one would go far to help, but with 
whom for all that one can have no sympathy. And yet they are so 

VOL. I. L 

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near to one that they know all the events of one's life, and are justified 
by unquestioned friendship in talking about things which should never 
be mentioned except where sympathy exists/' 

"Yes; I understand that" 

" Everybody understands it who has been unhappy. That woman 
sometimes says things to me that make me wish, — wish that they'd 
make him bishop of Patagonia. And yet she does it all in friendship, 
and mamma says that she is quite right" 

" I liked her for standing up for her husband." 

" But he does go to sleep, — and then he scratches his nose to show 
that he's awake. I shouldn't have said it, only she is always hinting 
at uncle Christopher. Uncle Christopher certainly does go to sleep 
when Mr. Boyce preaches, and he hasn't sAdied any scientific little 
movements during his slumbers to make people believe that he's all 
alive. I gave him a hint one day, and he got so angry with me ! " 

" I shouldn't have thought he could have been angry with you. It 
seems to me from what you say that you may do whatever you please 
with him." 

" He is very good to me. K you knew it all, — ^if you could under- 
stand how good he has been ! I'll try and tell you some day. It is 
not what he has done that makes me love him so, — but what he has 
thoroughly understood, and what, so understanding, he has not done, 
and what he has not said. It is a case of sympathy. If ever there 
was a gentleman uncle Christopher is one. And I used to dislike him 
so at one time 1 " 

"And why?" 

"Chiefly because he would make me wear brown frocks when I 
wanted to have them pink or green. And he kept me for six months 
from having them long, and up to this day he scolds me if there is half 
an inch on the ground for him to tread upon." 

" I shouldn't mind that if I were you." 

" I don't, — not now. But it used to be serious when I was a young 
girL And we thought, Bell and I, that he was cross to mamma. He 
and mamma didn't agree at first, you know, as they do now. It is 
quite true that he did dislike mamma when we first came here." 

" I can't think how anybody could ever dislike Mrs. Dale." 

" But he did. And then he wanted to make up a marriage between 
Bell and my cousin Bernard. But neither of them cared a bit for the 

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other, and then he used to scold them, — and then, — and then, — and 
then — . Oh, he was so good to me ! Here's Gregory at last. Gregory, 
we've been waiting this hour and a half." 

" It ain't ten minutes since Hopkins let me come with the barrows, 

" Then Hopkins is a traitor. Never mind. You'd better begin now, 
— up there at the steps. It'll be quite dark in a few minutes. Here's 
Mrs. Giles with her broom. Come, Mrs. Giles ; we shall have to pass 
the night here if you don't make haste. Are you cold, Grace 1 " 

" No ; I'm not cold. I'm thinking what they are doing now in the 
church at Hogglestock." 

" The Hogglestock church is not pretty ; — like this 1 " 

" Oh, no. It is a very plain brick building, with something like a 
pigeon-house for a belfry. And the pulpit is over the reading-desk, 
and the reading-desk over the clerk, so that papa, when he preaches, is 
nearly up to the ceiling. And the whole place is divided into pews, in 
which the farmers hide themselves when they come to church." 

" So that nobody can see whether they go to sleep or no. Oh, !Mrs. 
Giles, you mustn't pull that down. That's what we have been putting 
up all day." 

" But it be in the way, miss ; so that the minister can't budge in or 
out o' the door." 

"Never mind. Then he must stay one side or the other. That 
would be too much after all our trouble ! " And Miss Dale hurried 
across the chancel to save some prettily arching boughs, which, in the 
judgment of Mrs. Giles, encroached too much on the vestry door. "As 
if it signified which side he was," she said in a whisper to Grace. 

" I don't suppose they'll have anything in the church at home," said 

" Somebody will stick up a wreath or two, I daresay." 

" Nobody will. There never is anybody at Hogglestock to stick up 
wreaths, or to do anything for the prettinesses of life. And now there 
will be less done than ever. How can mamma look after holly-leaves 
in her present state? And yet she will miss them, too. Poor mamma 
sees very little that is pretty ; but she has not forgotten how pleasant 
pretty things are." 

"I wish I knew your mother, Grace." 

"I think it would be impossible for any one to know mamma no\r, 

L 2 

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— for any one who had not known her before. She never makes even 
a new acquaintance. She seems to think that there is nothing left for 
her in the world but to try and keep papa out of misery. And she 
does not succeed in that. Poor papa ! " 

" Is he very unhappy about this wicked accusation 1 " 

"Yes; he is very unhappy. But, Lily, I don't know about its 
being wicked." 

" But you know that it is untrue." 

" Of course I know that papa did not mean to take anything that 
was not his own. But, you see, nobody knows where it came from ; 
and nobody except mamma and Jane and I understand how very absent 
papa can be. I'm sure he doesn't know the least in the world how he 
catae by it himself, or he would tell mamma. Do you know, Lily, I 
think I have been wrong to come away." 

" Don't say that, dear. Kemember how anxious Mrs. Crawley was 
that you should come." 

"But I cannot bear to be comfortable here while they are so 
wretched at home. It seems such a mockery. Every time I find 
myself smiHng at what you say to me, I think I must be the most 
heartless creature in the world." 

" Is it so very bad with them, Grace 1 " 

" Indeed it is bad. I don't think you can imagine what mamma has 
to go through. She has to cook all that is eaten in the house, and 
then, very often, there is no money in the house to buy anything. If 
you were to see the clothes she wears, even that would make your 
heart bleed. I who have been used to being poor all my life, — even 
I, when I am at home, am dismayed by what she has to endure." 

" What can we do for her, Grace 1 " 

" You can do nothing, Lily. But when things are like that at home 
you can understand what I feel in being here." 

Mrs. Giles and Gregory had now completed their task, or had so 
nearly done so as to make Miss Dale think that she might safely leave 
the church. " We will go in now," she said ; " for it is dark and cold, 
and what I call creepy. Do you ever fancy that perhaps you will see 
a ghost some day 1 " 

"1 don't think I shall ever see a ghost ; but all the same I should 
be half afraid to be here alone in the dark." 

" I am often here alone in the dark, but I am beginning to think I 

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shall never see a ghost now. I am losing all my romance, and getting 
to be an old woman. Do you know, Grace, I do so hate myself for 
being such an old maid." 

" But who says you're an old maid, Lily ? " 

" I see it in people's eyes, and hear it in their voices. And they all 
talk to me as if I were very steady, and altogether removed from any- 
thing like fun and frolic. It seems to be admitted that if a girl does 
not want to fall in love, she ought not to care for any other fun in the 
world. If anybody made out a list of the old ladies in these parts, 
they'd put down Lady Julia and mamma, and Mrs. Boyce and me, and 
old Mrs. Hearne. The very children have an awful respect for me, 
and give over playing directly they see me. Well, mamma, we've done 
at last, and I have had such a scolding from Mrs. Boyce." 

" I daresay you deserved it, my dear." 

" lN"o, I did not, mamma. Ask Grace if I did." 

" Was she not saucy to Mrs. Boyce, Miss Crawley % " 

" She said that Mr. Boyce scratches his nose in church," said 

" So he does ; and goes to sleep, too." 

" If you told Mrs. Boyce that, Lily, I think she was quite right to 
scold you." 

Such was Miss Lily Dale, with whom Grace Crawley was staying ; 
— Lily Dale with whom Mr. John Eames, of the Income-tax Office, 
had been so long and so steadily in love that he was regarded among his 
fellow-clerks as a miracle of constancy, — who had, herself, in former days 
been so unfortunate in love as to have been -regarded among her friends 
in the country as the most ill-used of women. As John Eames had been 
able to be comfortable in life, — that is to say, not utterly a wretch, — 
in spite of his love, so had she managed to hold up her head, and live 
as other young women live, in spite of her misfortune. But as it may 
be said also that his constancy was true constancy, although he knew 
how to enjoy the good things of the world, so also had her misfortune 
been a true misfortune, although she had been able to bear it without 
much outer show of shipwreck. For a few days, — for a week or two, 
when the blow first struck her, she had been knocked down, and the 
friends who were nearest to her had thought that she would never 
again stand erect upon her feet. But she had been very strong, stout 
at heart, of a fixed purpose, and capable of resistance against oppression. 

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Even her own mother had been astonished, and sometimes almost 
dismayed, by the strength of her will. Her mother knew well how it 
was with her now ; but they who saw her frequently, and who did 
not know her as her mother knew her, — the Mrs. Boyces of her 
acquaintance, — whispered among themselves that Lily Dale was not so 
soft of heart as people used to think. 

On the next day, Christmas Day, as the reader will remember, Grace 
Crawley was taken up to dine at the big house with the old squire. 
Mrs. Dale's eldest daughter, with her husband, Dr. Crofts, was to be 
there ; and also Lily's old friend, who was also especially the old friend 
of Johnny Eames, Lady Julia De Guest. Grace had endeavoured to 
be excused from the party, pleading many pleas. But the upshot of 
all her pleas was this, — that while her father's position was so painful 
she ought not to go out anywhere. In answer to this, lily Dale, 
corroborated by her mother, assured her that for her father's sake she 
ought not to exhibit any such feeling ; that in doing so, she would 
seem to express a doubt as to her father's innocence. Then she allowed 
herself to be persuaded, telling her friend, however, that she knew the 
day would be very miserable to her. " It wiU be very humdrum, if 
you please," said Lily. "Nothing can be more humdrum than Christmas 
at the Great House. Nevertheless, you must go." 

Coming out of church, Grace was introduced to the old squire. He 
was a thin, old man, with grey hair, and the smallest possible grey 
whiskers, with a dry, solemn face ; not carrying in his outward gait 
much of the customary jollity of Christmas. He took his hat off to 
Grace, and said some word to her as to hoping to have the pleasure of 
seeing her at dinner. It sounded very cold to her, and she became at 
once afraid of him. ** I wish I was not going," she said to Lily, again. 
" I know he thinks I ought not to go. I shall be so thankful if you 
will but let me stay." 

" Don't be foolish, Grace. It all comes from your not knowing him, 
or understanding him. And how should you understand himi I 
give you my word that I would teU you if I did not know that he 
wishes you to go." 

She had to go. " Of course I haven't a dress fit. How should I?" 
she said to Lily. " How wrong it is of me to put myself up to such 
a thing as this." 

"Your dress is beautiful, child. We are none of us going in 

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evening-dresses. Pray believe that I will not make you do wrong. If 
you won't trust me, can't you trust mamma % " 

Of course she went. When the three ladies entered the drawing- 
room of the Great House they found that Lady Julia had arrived before 
them. Lady Julia immediately took hold of Lily, and led her apart, 
having a word or two to say about the derk in the Income-tax Office. 
I am not sure but what the dear old woman sometimes said a few more 
words than were expedient, with a view to the object which she had 
so closely at heart. "John is to be with us the first week in February," 
she said. " I suppose you'll see him before that, as he'll probably be 
with his mother a few days before he comes to me." 

" I daresay we shall see him quite in time, Lady Julia," said Lily. 

" Now, lily, don't be ill-natured." 

" I'm the most good-natured young woman alive. Lady Julia, and as 
for Johnny, he is always made as welcome at the Small House as violets 
in March. Mamma purrs about him when he comes, asking all manner 
of flattering questions as though he were a cabinet minister at least, 
and I always admire some little knicknack that he has got, a new ring, 
or a stud, or a button. There isn't another man in all the world whose 
buttons I'd look at." 

" It isn't his buttons, LQy." 

" Ah, that's just it. I can go as far as his buttons. But come, Lady 
Julia, this is Christmas-time, and Christmas should be a holiday." 

In the mean time Mrs. Dale was occupied with her married daughter 
and her son-in-law, and the squire had attached himself to poor Grace. 
" You have never been in this part of the country before, Miss Crawley." 
he said. 

" No, sir." 

" It is rather pretty just about here, and Guestwick Manor is a fine 
place in its way, but we have not so much natural beauty as you have 
in Barsetshire. Chaldicote Chase is, I think, as pretty as anything in 

" I never saw Chaldicote Chase, sir. It isn't pretty at all at Hoggle- 
6 took, where we live." 

" Ah, I forgot. No ; it is not very pretty at Hogglestock. That's 
where the bricks come from." 

" Papa is clergyman at Hogglestock." 

" Yes, yes ; I remember. Your father is a great scholar. I have 

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often heard of him. I am so sorry he should be distressed by this 
charge they have made. But it will all come right at the assizes. 
They always get at the truth there. I used to be intimate with a 
clergyman in Barsetshire of the name of Grantly ; " — Grace felt that her 
ears were tingling, and that her face was red ; — " Archdeacon Grantly. 
His father was bishop of the diocese." 

" Yes, sir. Archdeacon Grantly lives at Plurastead." 

"I was staying once with an old friend of mine, Mr. Thome of 
Ullathome, who lives close to Plumstead, and saw a good deal of them. 
I remember thinking Henry Grantly was a very nice lad. He married 

" Yes, sir ; but his wife is dead now, and he has got a little girl, — 
Edith Grantly." 

** Is there no other child 1 " 

"No, sir; only Edith." 

" You know him, then % " 

" Yes, sir ; I know Major Grantly, — and Edith. I never saw Arch- 
deacon Grantly." 

" Then, my dear, you never saw a very famous pillar of the Church 
I remember when people used to talk a great deal about Archdeacon 
Grantly ; but when his time came to be made a bishop, he was not 
sufficiently new-fangled ; and so he got passed by. He is much better 
off as he is, I should say. Bishops have to work very hard, my dear." 

"Do they, sirl" 

"So they tell me. And the archdeacon is a wealthy man. So 
Henry Grantly has got an only daughter ] I hope she is a nice child, 
for I remember liking him weU." 

" She is a very nice child, indeed, Mr. Dale. She could not be nicer. 
And she is so lovely." Then Mr. Dale looked into his young com- 
panion's face, struck by the sudden animation of her words, and 
perceived for the first time that she was very pretty. 

After this Grace became accustomed to the strangeness of the faces 
round her, and managed to eat her dinner without much perturbation 
of spirit. When after dinner the squire proposed to her that they 
should drink the health of her papa and mamma, she was almost reduced 
to tears, and ye{ she liked him for doing it. It was terrible to her to 
have them mentioned, knowing as she did that every one who mentioned 
them must be aware of their misery, — for the misfortune of her father 

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had become notorious in the country ; but it was almost more terrible 
to her that no allusion should be made to them ; for then she would 
be driven to* think that her father was regarded as a man whom the 
world could not aflford to mention. 

" Papa and mamma," she just murmured, raising her glass to her lips. 

"Grace, dear," said Lily from across the table, "here's papa and 
mamma, and the young man at Marlborough who is carrying everjrthing 
before him." 

"Yes; we won't forget the young man at Marlborough," said the 
squire. Grace felt this to be good-natured, because her brother at 
Marlborough was the one bright spot in her family, — and she was 

"And we will drink the health of my friend, John Eames," said 
Lady Julia. 

" John Eames' health," said the squire, in a low voice. 

" Johnny's health," said Mrs. Dale ; but Mrs. Dale's voice was not 
very brisk. 

" John's health," said Dr. Crofts and Mrs. Crofts in a breath. 

" Here's the health of Johnny Eames," said Lily ; and her voice was 
the clearest and the boldest of them all. But she made up her mind 
that if Lady Julia could not be induced to spare her for the future, she 
and Lady Julia must quarrel. " No one can understand," she said to 
her mother that evening, " how dreadful it is, — this being constantly 
told before one's family and friends that one ought to marry a certain 
young man." 

" She didn't say that, my dear." 

" I should much prefer that she should, for then I could get up on 
my legs and answer her off the reel. Of course everybody there under- 
stood what she meant, — including old John Bates, who stood at the 
sideboard and coolly drank the toast himself." 

" He always does that to all the family toasts on Christmas Day. 
Your uncle likes it." 

" That wasn't a family toast, and John Bates had no right to drink 

After dinner they all played cards, — a round game, — and the squire 
put in the stakes. " Now, Grace," said Lily, " you are the visitor, and you 
must win, or else uncle Christopher won't be happy. He always likes 
a young lady visitor to win." 

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" But I never played a game of cards in my life." 

" Go and sit next to him and he'll teach you. Uncle Christopher, 
•won't you teach Grace Crawley % She never saw a Pope Joan board in 
her life before." 

" Come here, my dear, and sit next to me. Dear, dear, dear ; fancy 
Henry Grantly having a little girl. What a handsome lad he was. And 
it seems only yesterday." If it was so that Lily had said a word to her 
uncle about Grace and the major, the- old squire had become on a sudden 
very sly. Be that as it may, Grace Crawley thought that he was a 
pleasant old man ; and though, while talking to him about Edith, she 
persisted in not learning to play Pope Joan, so that he could not con- 
trive that she should win, nevertheless the squire took to her very 
kindly, and told her to come up with Lily and see him sometimes while 
she was staying at the Small House. The squire in speaking of his 
sister-in-law's cottage always called it the Small House. 

" Only think of my winning," said Lady Julia, drawing together her 
wealth. " Well, Pm sure I want it bad enough, for I don't at all know 
whether I've got any income of my own. It's all John Eames' fault, 
my dear, for he won't go and make those people settle it in Lincoln's 
Inn Fields." Poor Lily, who was standing on the hearth-rug, touched 
her mother's arm. She knew that Johnny's name was lugged in with 
reference to Lady Julia's money altogether for her benefit. " I wonder 
whether she ever had a Johnny of her own," she said to her mother, 
" and, if so, whether she liked it when her friends sent the town-crier 
round to talk about him." 

" She means to be good-natured," said Mrs. Dale. 

" Of course she does. But it is such a pity when people won't 
understand. " 

**My uncle didn't bite you after all, Grace," said Lily to her friend 
as they were going home at night, by the pathway which led from the 
garden of one house to the garden of the other. 

" I like Mr. Dale very much," said Grace. " He was very kind to me." 

" There is some queer-looking animal of whom they say that he is 
better than he looks, and I always think of that saying when I Jthink 
of my uncle." 

" For shame, Lily," said her mother. " Your uncle, for his age, is 
as good a looking man as I know. And he always looks like just what 
he is, — an English gentleman." 

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" I didn't mean to say a word against his dear old face and figure, 
mamma; but his heart, and mind, and general disposition, as they 
come out in experience and days of trial, are so much better than the 
samples of them which he puts on the counter for men and women 
to judge by. He wears well, and he washes well, — if you know what 
I mean, Grace." 

" Yes ; I think I know what you mean." 

" The ApoUos of the world, — I don't mean in outward looks, mamma, 
— but the Apollos in heart, the men, — and the women too, — who are 
so full of feeling, so soft-natured, so kind, who never say a cross word, 
who never get out of bed on the wrong side in the morning, — it so often 
turns out that they won't wash." 

Such was the expression of Miss Lily Dale's experience. 



The scene which occurred in Hogglestock church on the Sunday after 
Mr. Thumble's first visit to that parish had not been described with 
absolute accuracy either by the archdeacon in his letter to his son, or 
by Mrs. Thome. There had been no footman from the palace in 
attendance on Mr. Thurable, nor had there been a battle with the 
brickmakers ; neither had Mr. Thumble been put under the pump. But 
Mr. Thumble had gone over, taking his gown and surplice with him, 
on the Sunday morning, and had intimated to Mr. Crawley his 
intention of performing the service. Mr. Crawley, in answer to this, 
had Assured Mr. Thumble that he would not be allowed to open his 
mouth in the church ; and Mr. Thumble, not seeing his way to any 
further successful action, had contented himself with attending the 
services in his surplice, making thereby a silent protest that he, and 

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not Mr. Crawley, ought to have been in the reading-desk and the 

When Mr. Thumble reported himself and his failure at the palace, 
he strove hard to avoid seeing Mrs. Proudie, hut not successfully. He 
knew something of the palace habits, and did manage to reach the 
bishop alone on the Sunday evening, justifying himself to his lordship 
for such an interview by the remarkable circumstances of the case and 
the importance of his late mission. Mrs. Proudie always went to church 
on Sunday evenings, making a point of hearing three services and three 
sermons every Sunday of her life. On week-days she seldom heard 
any, having an idea that week-day services were an invention of the 
High-Church enemy, and that they should therefore be vehemently 
discouraged. Services on saints' days she regarded as rank papacy, and 
had been known to accuse a clergyman's wife, to her face, of idolatry, 
because the poor lady had dated a letter, St. John's Eve. Mr. Thumble, 
on this Sunday evening, was successful in finding the bishop at home, 
and alone, but he was not lucky enough to get away before Mrs. Proudie 
returned. The bishop, perhaps, thought that the story of the failure 
had better reach his wife's ears from Mr. Thumble's lips than from his 

" Well, IVIr. Thumble ! " said Mrs. Proudie, walking into the study, 
armed in her fuU Sunday-evening winter panoply, in which she had 
just descended from her carriage. The church which Mrs. Proudie 
attended in the evening was nearly half a mile from the palace, and 
the coachman and groom never got a holiday on a Sunday night. She 
was gorgeous in a dark brown silk dress of awful stiffness and terrible 
dimensions ; and on her shoulders she wore a short cloak of velvet and 
fur, very handsome withal, but so swelling in its proportions on aU 
sides as necessarily to create more of dismay than of admiration in the 
mind of any ordinary man. And her bonnet was a monstrous helmet 
with the beaver up, displaying the awful face of the warrior, always 
ready for combat, and careless to guard itself from attack. The large 
contorted bows which she bore were as a grisly crest upon her casque, 
beautiful, doubtless, but majestic and fear-compelling. In her hand 
she carried her armour all complete, a prayer-book, a bible, and a book of 
hymns. These the footman had brought for her to the study-door, but 
she had thought fit to enter her husband's room with them in her own 
custody. " Well, Mr. Thumble ! " she said. Mr Thumble did not 

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answer at once, thinking, probably, that the bishop might choose to 
explain the circumstances. But neither did the bishop say anything. 
" Well, Mr. Thumble ! " she said again ; and then she stood looking at 
the man who had failed so disastrously. 

" I have explained to the bishop," said he. " Mr. Crawley has been 
contumacious, — very contumacious indeed." 

" But you preached at Hogglestock ] " , 

" ^o, indeed, Mrs. Proudie. Nor would it have been possible, un- 
less I had had the police to assist me." 

"Then you should have had the police. I never heard of anything 
so mismanaged in all my life; — never in all my life.'* And she put 
her books down on the study table, and turned herself round from Mr. 
Thumble towards the bishop. " If things go on like this, my lord," 
she said, " your authority in the diocese will very soon be worth nothing 
at all." It was not often that Mrs. Proudie called her husband my 
lord, but when she did so, it was a sign that terrible times had come ; — 
times so terrible that the bishop would know that he must either fight 
or fly. He would almost endure anything rather than descend into the 
arena for the purpose of doing battle with his wife, but occasions would 
come now and again when even the alternative of flight was hardly left 
to him. 

" But, my dear, " began the bishop. 

" Am I to understand that this man has professed himself to be 
altogether indifferent to the bishop's prohibition ] " said Mrs. Proudie, 
interrupting her husband and addressing Mr. Thumble. 

" Quite so. He seemed to think that the bishop had no lawful power 
in the matter at all," said Mr. Thumble. 

"Do you hear that, my lord ] " said Mrs. Proudie. 

" Nor have I any," said the bishop, almost weeping as he spoke. 

" No authority in your own diocese ! " 

"None to silence a man merely by my own judgment. I thought, 
and still think, that it was for this gentleman's own interest, as well as 
for the credit of the Church, that some provision should be made for 
his duties during his present — present— difficulties." 

" Difficulties indeed ! Everybody knows that the man has been a 

" No, my dear ; I do not know it." 

" You never know anything, bishop.'* 

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" I mean to say that I do not know it officially. Of course I have 
heard the sad story ; and, though I hope it may not be the ^" 

" There is no doubt about its truth. All the world knows it. He 
has stolen twenty pounds, and yet he is to be allowed to desecrate the 
Church, and imperil the souls of the people ! " The bishop got up 
from his chair and began to walk backwards and forwards through the 
room with short quick steps. " It only wants five days to Christmas 
Day," continued Mrs. Proudie, " and something must be done at once. 
I say nothing as to the propriety or impropriety of his being out on 
bail, as it is no affair of ours. When I heard that he had been bailed 
by a beneficed clergyman of this diocese, of course I knew where to 
look for the man who would act with so much impropriety. Of course 
I was not surprised when I found that that person belonged to Framley. 
But, as I have said before, that is no business of ours. I hope, Mr. 
Thumble, that the bishop will never be found interfering with the or- 
dinary laws of the land. I am very sure that he will never do so hy 
my advice. But when there comes a question of inhibiting a clergy- 
man who has committed himself as this clergyman unfortunately has 
done, then I say that that clergyman ought to be inhibited." The 
bishop walked up and down the room throughout the whole of this 
speech, but gradually his steps became quicker, and his turns became 
shorter. " And now here is Christmas Day upon us, and what is to be 
done ? " With these words Mrs. Proudie finished her speech. 

"Mr. Thumble," said the bishop, "perhaps you had better now 
retire. I am very sorry that you should have had so thankless and so 
disagreeable a task." 

" Why should Mr. Thumble retire ? " asked Mrs. Proudie. 

" I think it better," said the bishop. " Mr. Thumble, good-night." 
Then Mr. Thumble did retire, and Mrs. Proudie stood forth in her full 
panoply of armour, silent and awful, with her helmet erect, and 
vouchsafed no recognition whatever of the parting salutation with which 
Mr. Thumble greeted her. " My d^ar, the truth is, you do not understand 
the matter," said the bishop as soon as the door was closed. " You do 
not know how limited is my power." 

" Bishop, I understand it a great deal better than some people ; and 
I understand also what is due to myself and the manner in which I 
ought to be treated by you in the presence of the subordinate clergy of 
the diocese. I shall not, however, remain here to be insulted either iu 

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the presence or in the absence of any one." Then the conquered amazon 
collected together the weapons which she had laid upon the table, and 
took her departure with majestic step, and not without the clang of 
arms. The bishop, when he was left alone, enjoyed for a few moments 
the triumph of his victory. 

But then he was left so very much alone ! When he looked round 
about him upon his solitude after the departure of his wife, and 
remembered that he should not see her again till he should encounter 
her on ground that was all her own, he regretted his own success, and 
was tempted to follow her and to apologize. He was unable to do 
anything alone. He would not even know how to get his tea, as the 
very servants would ask questions, if he were to do so unaccustomed a 
thing as to order it to be brought up to him in his solitude. They would tell 
him that Mrs. Proudie was having tea in her little sitting-room upstairs, 
or else that the things were laid in the drawing-room. He did wander 
forth to the latter apartment, hoping that he might find his wife there; 
but the drawing-room was dark and deserted, and so he wandered back 
again. It was a grand thing certainly to have triumphed over his wife, 
and there was a crumb of comfort in the thought that he had viudicated 
himself before Mr. Thumble ; but the general result was not comforting, 
and he knew from of old how short-lived his triumph would be. 

But wretched as he was during that evening he did employ himself 
with some energy. After much thought he resolved that he would 
again write to Mr. Crawley, and summon him to appear at the palace. 
In doing this he would at any rate be doing something. There would 
be action. And though Mr. Crawley would, as he thought, decline to 
obey the order, something would be gained even by that disobedience. 
So he wrote his summons, — sitting very comfortless and all alone on 
that Sunday evening, — dating his letter, however, for the following 

"Palace, December 20, 186—. 
"Eevbrbnd Sir, — 

" I HAVE just heard from Mr. Thumble that you have declined 
to accede to the advice which I thought it my duty to tender to you as 
the bishop who has been set over you by the Church, and that you 
yesterday insisted on what you believed to be your righ^ to administer 
the services in the parish church of Hogglestock. This has occasioned 
me the deepest regret. It is, I think, UDavailiug that J should further 

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write to you my mind upon the subject, as I possess such strong 
evidence that my written word will not be respected by you. I have, 
therefore, no alternative now but to invite you to come to me here ; 
and this I do, hoping that I may induce you to listen to that authority 
which I cannot but suppose you acknowledge to be vested in the office 
which I hold. 

" I shall be glad to see you on to-morrow, Tuesday, as near the hour 
of two as you can make it convenient to yourself to be here, and I will 
take care to order that refreshment shall be provided for yourself and 
your horse. 

" I am, Eeverend Sir, 

"&c. &c. &c. 

"Thos. Barnum." 

"My dear,** he said, when he did again encounter his wife that 
night, " I have written to Mr. Crawley, and I thought I might as well 
bring up the copy of my letter." 

" I wash my hands of the whole affair," said Mrs. Proudie — " of the 
whole affair ! " 

" But you will look at the letter] " 

" Certainly not. Why should I look at the letter 1 My word goes 
for nothing. I have done what I could, but in vain. Now let us see 
how you will manage it yourself." 

The bishop did not pass a comfortable night ; but in the morning 
his wife did read his letter and after that things went a little smoother 
with him. She was pleased to say that, considering all things ; — seeing, 
as she could not help seeing, that the matter had been dreadfully 
mismanaged, and that great weakness had been displayed ; — seeing that 
these faults had already been committed, perhaps no better step could 
now be taken than that proposed in the letter. 

" I suppose he will not come," said the bishop. 

" I think he will," said Mrs. Proudie, " and I trust that we may be 
able to convince him that obedience vnll be his best course. He will 
be more humble-minded here than at Hogglestock." In saying this 
the lady showed some knowledge of the general nature of clergymfin 
and of the world at large. She understood how much louder a cock 
can crow in its own farmyard than elsewhere, and knew that episcopal 
authority backed by aU the solemn awe of palatial grandeur goes much 

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jfurther than it will do when sent under the folds of an ordinary 
envelope. But though she understood ordinary human nature, it may 
be that she did not understand Mr. Crawley's nature. 

But she was at any rate right in her idea as to Mr. Crawley's imme- 
diate reply. The palace groom who rode over to Hogglestock returned 
with an immediate answer. 

" My Lord *' — eaid Mr. Crawley, 

** I WILL ohey your lordship's summons, and, unless impedi- 
ments should arise, I will wait upon your lordship at the hour you 
name to-morrow. I will not trespass on your hospitality. For myself, 
I rarely break bread in any house but my own ; and as to the horse, I 
have none. 

" I have the honour to be, 

" My lord, &c. &c. 

"JosiAH Crawley." 

" Of course I shall go," he had said to his wife as soon as he had 
had time to read the letter, and make known to her the contents. " I 
shall go if it be possible for me to get there. I think that I am bound 
to comply with the bishop's wishes in so much as that." 

" But how will you get there, Josiah ] " 

" I will walk, — ^with the Lord's aid." 

Now Hogglestock was fifteen miles from Barchester, and Mr. Crawley 
was, as his wife well knew, by no means fitted in his present state for 
great physical exertion. But from the tone in which he had replied to 
her, she well knew that it would not avaU for her to remonstrate at 
the moment. He had walked more than thirty miles in a day since 
they had been living at Hogglestock, and she did not doubt but that 
it might be possible for him to do it again. Any scheme^ which she 
might be able to devise for saving him from so terrible a journey in 
the middle of winter, must be pondered over silently, and brought to 
bear, if not slyly, at least deftly, and without discussion. She made 
no reply therefore when he declared that on the following day he 
1 would walk to Barchester and back, — with the Lord's aid ; nor did she 
see, or ask to see, the note which he sent to the bishop. When the 
messenger was gone, Mr. Crawley was all alert, looking forward with 
evident glee to his encounter with the bishop, — snorting like a race- 

VOL. I. M 

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horse at the expected triumph of the coiLing struggle. And he read 
much Greek with Jane on that afternoon, pouring into her young ears, 
almost with joyous rapture, his appreciation of the glory and the pathos 
and the humanity, as also of the awful tragedy, of the story of CEdipus. 
His very soul was on fire at the idea of clutching the weJc bishop in 
his hand, and crushing him with his strong grasp. 

In the afternoon Mrs. Crawley slipped out to a neighbouring farmer's 
wife, and returned in an hour's time with a little story which she did 
not teU with any appearance of eager satisfaction. She had learned 
well what were the little tricks necessary to the carrying of such a mat- 
ter as that which she had now in hand. Mr. Mangle, the farmer, as it 
happened, was going to-morrow morning in his tax- cart as far as Framley 
Mill, and would be delighted if Mr. Crawley would take a seat. He 
must remain at Framley the best part of the afternoon, and hoped that 
Mr. Crawley would take a seat back again. Now Framley Mill was 
only half a mile off the direct road to Barchester, and was almost half 
way from Hogglestock parsonage to the city. This would, at any rate, 
bring the walk within a practicable distance. Mr. Crawley was instantly 
placed upon his guard, like an animal that sees the bait and suspects 
he trap. Had he been told that farmer Mangle was going all the way 
to Barchester, nothing would have induced him to get into the cart. 
He would have felt sure that farmer Mangle had been persuaded to 
pity him in his poverty and his strait, and he would sooner have started 
to walk to London than have put a foot upon the step of the cart. 
But this lift half way did look to him as though it were really for- 
tuitous. His wife could hardly have been cunning enough to persuade 
the farmer to go to Framley, conscious that the trap would have been 
suspected had the bait been made more full. But I fear, — I fear the 
dear good woman had been thus cunning, — ^had understood how far 
the trap mi^ht be baited, and had thus succeeded in catching her prey. 

On the following morning he consented to get into farmer Mangle's 
cart, and was driven as far as Framley Mill. " I wouldn't think nowt, 
your reverence, of running you over into Barchester, — that I wouldn't 
The powny is so mortial good," said farmer Mangle in his foolish good 

" And how about your business here 1 " said Mr. Crawley. The farmer 
scratched his head, remembering all Mrs. Crawley's injunctions, and 
awkwardly acknowledged that to be sure his own business with the 

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miller was very pressing. Then Mr. Crawley descended, terribly sus- 
picious, and went on his journey. 

" Anyways, your reverence will call for me coming back 1 " said farmer 
Mangle. Bat Mr. Crawley would make no promise. He bade the 
farmer not ryait for him. If they chanced to meet together on the road 
he might get up again. If the man really had business at Framley, 
how could he have ofifered to go on to Barchester ? Were they deceiv- 
ing him ? The wife of his bosom had deceived hitn in such matters 
before now. But his trouble in this respect was soon dissipated by the 
pride of his anticipated triumph over the bishop. He took great glory 
from the thought that he would go before the bishop with dirty boots 
— ^with boots necessarily dirty, — with rusty pantaloons, that he would 
be hot and mud-stained with his walk, hungry, and an object to be 
wondered at by all who should see him, because of the misfortunes 
which had been unworthily heaped upon his head ; whereas the bishop 
would be sleek and clean and well-fed, — pretty with all the prettinesses 
that are becoming to a bishop's outward man. And he, Mr. Crawley, 
would be humble, whei'eas the bishop would be very proud. And the 
bishop would be in his own arm-chair, — the cock in his own farmyard, 
while he, Mr. Crawley, would be seated afar ofF, in the cold extremity 
of the room, with nothing of outward circumstances to assist him, — a 
man called thither to undergo censure. And yet he would take the 
bishop in his grasp and crush him, — crush him, — crush him ! As he 
thought of this he walked quickly through the mud, and put out his 
long arm and his great hand, far before him out into the air, and, there 
and then, he crushed the bishop in his imagination.^ Yes, indeed ! He 
thought it very doubtful whether the bishop would ever send for him a 
second time. As all this passed through his mind, he forgot his wife's 
cunning, and farmer Mangle's sin, and for the moment he was 

As he turned a comer round by Lord Lufton's park paling, who 
should he meet but his old friend Mr. Eobarts,- the parson of Framley, 
— ^the parson who had committed the sin of being bail for him, — the 
sin, that is, according to Mrs. Proudie's view of the matter. He was 
walking with his hand still stretched out, — still crushing the bishop, 
when Mr. Eobarts was close upon him. 

" What, Crawley ! upon my word I am very glad to see you ; you 
are coming up to me, pf coiurde 1 " 

H 2 

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"Thank you, Mr. Robarts; no, not to-day. The bishop has 
summoned me to his presence, and I am on my road to Barchester." 

" But how are you going % " 

" I shaU walk." 

" Walk to Barchester. Impossible ! " 

" I hope not quite impossible, Mr. Robarts. I trust I shall get as 
far before two o'clock ; but to do so I must be on my road." Then he 
showed signs of a desire to go on upon his way without further parley. 

" But, Crawley, do let me send you over. There is the horse and 
gig doing nothing." 

" Thank you, Mr. Robarts ; no. I should prefer the walk to-day." 

** And you have walked from Hogglestock ? " 

" No ; — not so. A neighbour coming hither, who happened to have 
business at your mill, — ^he brought me so far in his cart. The walk 
home will be nothing, — ^nothing. I shall enjoy it, Good-moming, 
Mr. Robarts." 

But Mr. Robarts thought of the dirty road, and of the bishop's 
presence, and of his own ideas of what would be becoming for a clergy- 
man, — and persevered. " You will find the lanes so very muddy ; and 
our bishop, you know, is apt to notice such things. Do be persuaded." 

" Notice what things ? " demanded Mr. Crawley, in an indignant tone. 

" He, or perhaps she rather, will say how dirty your shoes were when 
you came to the palace." 

" If he, or she, can find nothing unclean about me but my shoes, let 
them say their worst. I shall be very indifferent. I have long ceased, 
Mr. Robarts, to care much what any man or woman may say about my 
shoes. Good morning." Then he stalked on, clutching and crushing 
in his hand the bishop, and the bishop's wife, and the whole diocese, 
and aU the Church of England. Dirty shoes, indeed 1 Whose was 
the fault that there were in the Church so many feet soiled by unmerited 
poverty, and so many hands soiled by undeserved wealth 1 If the 
bishop did not like his shoes, let the bishop dare to tell him so ! So he 
walked on through the thick of the mud, by no means picking his 

He walked fast, and he found himself in the close half an hour before 
the time named by the bishop. But on no account would he have rung 
the palace bell one minute before two o'clock. So he walked up and 
down under the towers of the cathedral, and cooled himself, and looked 

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up at the pleasant plate-glass in the windows of the house of his friend 
the dean, and told himseK how, in their college days, he and the dean 
had been quite equal, — quite equal, except that by the voices of all 
qualified judges in the university, he, Mr. Crawley, had been acknow- 
ledged to be the riper scholar. And now the Mr. Atabin of those days 
was Dean of Barchester, — travelling abroad luxuriously at this moment 
for his delight, while he, Crawley, was perpetual curate at Hogglestock, 
and had now walked into Barchester at the command of the bishop, 
' because he was suspected of having stolen twenty pounds I When he 
had fully imbued his mind with the injustice of all this, his time was 
up, and he walked boldly to the bishop's gate, and boldly rang the 
bishop's belL 



"Who inquires why it is that a little greased flour rubbed in among the 
hair on a footman's head, — just one dab here and another there, — gives 
such a tone of high life to the family 1 And seeing that the thing is 
so easily done, why do not more people attempt it 1 The tax on hair- 
powder is but thirteen shillings a year. It may, indeed, be that the 
slightest dab in the world justifies the wearer in demanding hot meat 
three times a day, and wine at any rate on Sundays. I think, however, 
that a bishop's wife may enjoy the privilege without such heavy 
attendant expense ; otherwise the man who opened the bishop's door 
to Mr. Crawley would hardly have been so ornamented. 

The man asked for a card. " My name is Mr. Crawley," said our 
friend. " The bishop has desired me to come to him at this hour. Will 
you be pleased to tell him that I am here." The man again asked for 
a card. " I am not bound to carry with me my name printed on a 

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ticket," said Mr. Crawley. " If you cannot remember it, give me pen 
and paper, and I will write it." The servant, somewhat awed by the 
stranger 8 manner, brought the pen and paper, and Mr. Crawley wrote 
his name — 

"The Eev. Josiah Crawlbt, M.A., 

Perpetual Curate of Hogglestock,** 

He was then ushered into a waiting-room, but, to his disappointment, 
was not kept there waiting long. Within three minutes he was ushered 
into the bishop's study, and into the presence of the two great lumi- 
naries of the diocese. He was at first somewhat disconcerted by finding 
Mrs. Proudie in the room. In the imaginary conversation with the 
bishop which he had been preparing on the road, he had conceived that 
the bishop would be attended by a chaplain, and he had suited his 
words to the joint discomfiture of the bishop and of the lower clergy- 
man ; but now the line of his battle must be altered. This was no 
doubt an injury, but he trusted to his courage and readiness to enable 
him to surmount it. He had left his hat behind him in the waiting- 
room, but he kept his old short cloak still upon his shoulders ; and 
when he entered the bishop's room his hands and arms were hid beneath 
it. There was something lowly in this constrained gait. It showed 
at least that he had no idea of being asked to shake hands with the 
august persons he might meet. And his head was somewhat bowed, 
though his great, bald, broad forehead showed itself so prominent, that 
neither the bishop nor Mrs. Proudie could drop it from their sight 
during the whole interview. He was a man who when seen could 
hardly be forgotten. The deep angry remonstrant eyes, the shaggy 
eyebrows, telling tales of frequent anger, — of anger frequent but 
generally silent, — ^the repressed indignation of the habitual frown, the 
long nose and large powerful mouth, the deep furrows on the cheek, 
and the general look of thought and suffering, all combined to make 
the appearance of the man remarkable, and to describe to the beholders 
at once his true character. No one ever on seeing Mr. Crawley took 
him to be a happy man, or a weak man, or an ignorant man, or a wise 

" You are very punctual, Mr. Crawley," said the bishop. Mr. Crawley 
simply bowed his head, still keeping his hands beneath his cloak. 
"Will you not take a chair nearer to the fire 1 " Mr. Crawley had not 

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seated himself, but had placed himself in front of a chair at the 
extreme end of the room, resolved that he would not use it unless he 
were duly asked. Now he seated himself, — still at a distance. 

" Thank you, my lord," he said, " I am warm with walking, and, if 
you please, will avoid the fire." 

" You have not walked, Mr. Crawley 1 " 

" Yes, my lord. I have been walking." 

" Not from Hogglestock ! " 

Now this was a matter which Mr. Crawley certainly did not mean 
to discuss with the bishop. It might be well for the bishop to demand 
his presence in the palace, but it could be no part of the bishop's duty 
to inquire how he got there. " That, my lord, is a matter of no moment," 
said he. " I am glad at any rate that I have been enabled to obey your 
lordship's order in coming hither on this morning." 

Hitherto Mrs. Proudie had not said a word. She stood back in the 
room, near the fire, — more backward a good deal than she was accus- 
tomed to do when clergymen made their ordinary visits. On such 
occasions she would come forward and shake hands with them graciously, 
— graciously even, if proudly; but she had felt that she must do 
nothing of that kind now ; there must be no shaking hands with a man 
who had stolen a cheque for twenty pounds I It might probably be 
necessary to keep Mjr. Crawley at a distance, and therefore she had 
remained in the background. But Mr. Crawley seemed to be disposed 
to keep himself in the background, and therefore she could speak. 
" I hope your wife and children are well, Mr. Crawley 1 " she said. 

" Thank you, madam, my children are well, and Mrs. Crawley suffers 
no special ailment at present." 

" That is much to-be thankful for, Mr. Crawley." Whether he were 
or were not thankful for such mercies as these was no business of the 
bishop or of the bishop's wife. That was between him and his Grod. 
So he would not even bow to this civility, but sat vdth his head erect, 
and with a great frown on his heavy brow. 

Then the bishop rose from his chair to speak, intending to take up 
a position on the rug. But as he did so Mr. Crawley rose also, and 
the bishop found that he would thus lose his expected vantage. " Will 
you not be seated, Mr. Crawley]" said the bishop. Mr. Crawley 
smiled, but stood his ground. Then the bishop returned to his arm- 
chair, and Mr. Crawley also sat down again. " Mr. Crawley," began 

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the bishop, " this matter which came the other day before the mao-'s- 
trates at Silverbridge has been a most unfortunate aflfair. It has given 
me, I can assure you, the most sincere pain." 

Mr. Crawley had made up his mind how far the bishop should be 
allowed to go without a rebuke. He had told himself that it would 
only be natural, and would not be unbecoming, that the bishop should 
allude to the meeting of the magistrates and to the alleged theft, and 
that therefore such allusion should be endured with patient humility. 
And, moreover, the more rope he gave the bishop, the more likely 
the bishop would be to entangle himseK. It certainly was Mr. 
Crawley's wish that the bishop should entangle himself. He, 
therefore, replied very meekly, " It has been most unfortunate, my 

" I have felt for Mrs. Crawley very deeply," said Mrs. Proudie. Mr. 
Crawley had now made up his mind that as long as it was possible he 
would ignore the presence of Mrs. Proudie altogether ; and, therefore, 
he made no sign that he heard the latter remark. 

" It has been most unfortunate," continued the bishop. " I have 
never before had a clergyman in my diocese placed in so distressing a 

" That is a matter of opinion, my lord,'' said Mr. Crawley, who at that 
moment thought of a crisis which had come in the life of .another 
clergyman in the diocese of Barchester, with the circumstances of which 
he had by chance been made acquainted. 

" Exactly," said the bishop. ** And I am expressing my opinion." 
Mr. Crawley, who understood fighting, did not think that the time had 
yet come for striking a blow, so he simply bowed again. " A most 
unfortunate position, Mr. Crawley," continued the .bishop. " Far bo it 
from me to express an opinion upon the matter, which will have to 
come before a jury of your countrymen. It is enough for me to know- 
that the magistrates assembled at Silverbridge, gentlemen to whom no 
doubt you must be known, as most of them live in your neighbourhood, 
have heard evidence upon the subject " 

^*Most convincing evidence," said Mrs. Proudie, interrupting her 
husband. Mr. Crawley's black brow became a little blacker as he 
heard the word, but still he ignored the woman. He not only did not 
speak, but did not turn his eye upon her. 

" They have heard the evidence on the subject," continued the bishop. 

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"and they have thought it proper to refer the decision as to your inno- 
cence or your guilt to a jury of your countrymen." 

" And they were right," said Mr. Crawley. 

" Very possibly. I don't deny it. Probably," said the bishop, whose 
eloquence was somewhat disturbed by Mr. Crawley's ready acquiescence. 

" Of course they were right," said Mrs. Proudie. 

" At any rate it is so," said the bishop. " You are in the position of 
a man amenable to the criminal laws of the land." 

" There are no criminal laws, my lord," said Mr. Crawley ; " but to 
such laws as there are we are all amenable, — ^your lordship and I alike." 

" But you are so in a very particular way. I do not wish to remind 
you what might be your condition now, but for the interposition of 
private friends." 

" I should be in the condition of a man not guilty before the law, — 
guiltless, as far as the law goes, — but kept in durance, not for faults of 
his own, but because otherwise, by reason of laches in the police, his 
presence at the assizes might not be ensured. In such a position a man's 
reputation is made to hang for awhile on the trust which some friends 
or neighbours may have in it. I do not say that the test is a good 

"You would have been put in prison, Mr. Crawley because the 
magistrates were of the opinion that you had taken Mr. Soames's cheque," 
said Mrs. Proudie. On this occasion he did look at her. He turned 
one glance upon her from under his eyebrows, but he did not speak. 

"With all that I have nothing to do," said the bishop. 

" Nothing whatever, my lord," said Mr. Crawley. 

" But, bishop, I think that you have," said Mrs. Proudie. " The 
judgment formed by the magistrates as to the conduct of one of your 
clergymen makes it imperative upon you to act in the matter." 

" Yes, my dear, yes ; I am coming to that. What Mrs. Proudie says 
is i)erfectly true. I have been constrained most unwillingly to take 
action in this matter. It is undoubtedly the fact that you must at the 
next assizes surrender yourself at the court-house yonder, to be tried 
for this olfence against the laws." 

" That is true. If I be alive, my lord, and have strength sufficient, 
I shall be there." 

"You must be there," said Mrs. Proudie. "The police will look to 
that, Mr. Crawley." She was becoming very angry in that the man 

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would not answer her a word. On this occasion again he did not 
even look at her. 

" Yes ; you will be there," said the bishop. " Now that is, to say 
the least of it, an unseemly position for a beneficed clergyman.'* 

" You said before, my lord, that it was an unfortunate position, and 
the word, methinks, was better chosen.*' 

" It is very unseemly, very unseemly indeed," said Mrs. Proudie ; 
" nothing could possibly be more unseemly. The bishop might veay 
properly have used a much stronger word." 

** Under these circumstances," continued the bishop, " looking to the 
welfare of your parish, to the welfare of the diocese, and allow me to 
say, Mr. Crawley, to the welfare of yourself also " 

" And especially to the souls of the people," said Mrs. Proudie. 

The bishop shook his head. It is hard to be impressively eloquent 
when one is interrupted at every best turned period, even by a sup- 
porting voice. " Yes ; — and looking of course to the religious interests 
of your people. Ml*. Crawley, I came to the conclusion that it would 
be expedient that you should cease your ministrations for awhile." 
The bishop paused, and Mr. Crawley bowed his head. " I, therefore, 
sent over to you a gentleman with whom I am well acquainted, Mr. 
Thumble, with a letter from myself, in which I endeavoured to impress 
upon you, without the use of any severe language, what my convictions 

" Severe words iire often the best mercy," said Mrs. Proudie. Mr. 
Crawley had raised his hand, with his finger out preparatory to answer- 
ing the bishop. But as Mrs. Proudie had spoken he dropped his 
finger and was silent. 

" Mr. Thumble brought me back your written reply," continued the 
bishop, " by which I was grieved to find that you were not willing to 
submit yourself to my counsel in the matter." 

"I was most unwilling, my lord. Submission to authority is at 
times a duty; — and at times opposition to authority is a duty 

" Opposition to just authority cannot be a duty, Mr. Crawley." 
. " Opposition to usurped authority is an imperative duty," said Mr. 

"And who is to be the judge]" demanded Mrs. Proudie. Then, 
there was silence for a while ; when, as Mr. Crawley made no reply. 

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the lady repeated her question. " Will you be pleased to answer my 
question, sir? Who, in such a case, is to be the judge T* But Mr. 
Crawley did not please to answer. " The man is obstinate," said Mrs. 
• Proudie. 

" I had better proceed," said the bishop. ** Mr. Thumble brought 
me back your reply, which grieved me greatly." 

" It was contumacious and indecent," said Mrs. Proudie. 

The bishop again shook his head and looked so unutterably miserable 
that a smile came across Mr. Crawley's face. After all, others besides 
himself had their troubles and trials. Mrs. Proudie saw and under- 
stood the smile, and became more angry than ever. She drew her chair 
close to the table, and began to fidget with her lingers among the papers. 
She had never before encountered a clergyman so contumacious, so 
indecent, so unreverend, — so upsetting. She had had to do with men 
difficult to manage ; — the archdeacon for instance ; but the archdeacon 
had never been so impertinent to her as this man. She had quarrelled 
once openly with a chaplain of her husband's, a clergyman whom 9he 
herself had introduced to her husband, and who had treated her very 
badly ; — ^but not so badly, not with such unscrupulous violence, as she 
was now encountering from this iU-clothed beggarly man, this perpetual 
curate, with his dirty broken boots, this already half -convicted thief 1 
Such was her idea of Mr. Crawley's conduct to her, while she was 
fingering the papers, — simply because Mr. Crawley would not speak to 

* I forget where I was," said the bishop. " Oh. Mr, Thumble came 
back, and I received your letter ; — of course I received it. And I was 
surprised to learn from that, that in spite of what had occurred at 
Silver!) ridge, you were still anxious to continue the usual Sunday 
ministrations in your church." 

" I was determined that I would do my duty at Hogglestock as long 
as I might be left there to do it," said Mr. Crawley. 

" Duty ! " said Mrs Proudie. 

" Just a moment, my dear," said the bishop. " When Sunday came, 
I had no alternative but to send Mr. Thumble over again to Hoggle- 
stock. It occurred to us, — to me and Mrs. Proudie, — " 

" I will teU Mr. Crawley just now what has occurred to me," said 
Mrs. Proudie. 

" Yes ; — ^just so. And I am sure that he will take it in good part. 

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It occurred to me, Mr. Crawley, that your first letter might have been 
written in haste." 

" It was written in haste, my lord ; your messenger was waiting." 

" Yes ; — just so. Well ; so I sent him again, hoping that he might . 
be accepted as a messenger of peace. It was a most disagreeable mission 
for any gentleman, Mr. Crawley." 

" Most disagreeable, my lord." 

" And you refused him permission to obey the instructions which I 
had given him I You would not let him read from your desk, or preach 
from your pulpit." 

" Had I been Mr. Thumble," said Mrs. Proudie, " I would have read 
from that desk and I would have preached from that pulpit." 

Mr. Crawley waited a moment, thinking that the bishop might per- 
haps speak again ; but as he did not, but sat expectant as though he 
had finished his discourse, and now expected a reply, Mr. Cmwley got 
up from his seat and drew near to the table. " My lord," he began, 
'^ it has all been just as you have said. I did answer your first letter 
in haste." 

^* The more shame for you," said Mrs. Proudie. 

" And therefore, for aught I know, my letter to your lordship may be 
so worded as to need some apology." 

*^ Of course it needs an apology," said Mrs. Proudie. 

" But for the matter of it, my lord, no apology can be made, nor is 
any needed. I did refuse to your messenger permission to perform the 
services of my cliurch, and if you send twenty more, I shall refuse them- 
all, — till the time may come when it will be your lordship's duty, in 
accordance with the laws of the Church, as borne out and backed by the 
laws of the land, to provide during my constrained absence for the 
spiritual wants of those poor people at Hogglestock." 

" Poor people, indeed," said Mrs. Proudie. " Poor wretches ! " 

" And, my lord, it may be, that it shall soon be your lordship's duty 
to take due and legal steps for depriving me of my benefice at Hoggle- 
stock ; — nay, probably, for silencing me altogether as to the exercise of 
my sacred profession ! " 

" Of course it will, sir. Your gown will be taken from you," said 
Mrs. Proudie. The bishop was looking with all his eyes up at the 
great forehead and great eyebrows of the man, and was so fascinated by 

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thB power that was exercised over him by the other man's strength that 
he hardly now noticed his wife. 

" It may well be so," continued Mr. Crawley. " The circumstances 
are strong against me ; and, though your lordship has altogether mis- 
understood the nature of the duty performed by the magistrates in 
sending my case for trial, — although, as it seems to me, you have come 
to conclusions in this matter in ignorance of the very theory of our 
laws, " 

" Sir ! " said Mrs. Proudie. 

^* Yet I can foresee the probability that a jury may discover me to 
have been guilty of theft." 

" Of course the jury will do so," said Mrs. Proudie. 

" Should such verdict be given, then, my lord, your interference will 
be legal, proper, and necessary. And you will find that, even if it be 
within my power to oppose obstacles to your lordship's authority, I will 
oppose no such obstacle. There is, I believe, no appeal in criminal 

" None at all," said Mrs. Proudie. " There is no appeal against your 
bishop. You should have learned that before." 

" But till that time shall come, my lord, I shall hold my own at 
Hogglestock as you hold your own here at Barchester. Nor have you 
more power to turn me out of my pulpit by your mere voice, than I 
have to turn you out of your throne by mine. If you dohbt me, my 
lord, your lordship's ecclesiastical court is open to you. Try it 

** You defy us, then ] " said Mrs. Proudie. 

" My lord, I grant your authority as bishop to be great, but even a 
bishop can only act as the law allows him." 

" God forbid that I should do more," said the bishop. 

" Sir,, you will find that your wicked threats will fall back upon your 
own head," said Mrs. Proudie. 

"Peace, woman," Mr. Crawley said, addressing her at last. The bishop 
jumped out of his chair at hearing the wife of his bosom called a woman. 
But he jumped rather in admiration than in anger. He had already 
begun to perceive that Mr. Crawley was a man who had better be left 
to take care of the souls at Hogglestock,- at any rate till the triail should 
come on. 

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" Woman ! " said Mrs. Proudie, rising to her feet as though she really 
intended some personal encounter. 

"Madam," said Mr. Crawley, "you should not interfere in these 
matters. You simply dehase your hushand's high office. The distaff 
were more fitting for you. My lord, good morning." And hefore either 
of them could speak again, he was out of the room, and through the 
hall, and heyond the gate, and standing heneath the towers of the 
cathedral. Yes, he had, he thought, crushed the bishop. He had suc- 
ceeded in crumpling the bishop up within the clutch of his fist. 

He started in a spirit of triumph to walk back on his road towai\is 
Hogglestock. He did not think of the long distance before him for 
the first hour of his journey. He had had his victory, and the 
remembrance of that braced his nerves and gave elasticity to his sinews, 
and he went stalking along the road with rapid strides, muttering to 
himself from time to time as he went along some word about Mrs, 
Proudie and her distaff. Mr. Thumble would not, he thought, come 
to him again, — not, at any rate, till the assizes were drawing near. 
And he had resolved what he would do then. When the day of his 
trial was near, he would himself write to the bishop, and beg that 
provision might be made for his church, in the event of the verdict 
going against him. His friend. Dean Arabin, was to be home before 
that time, and the idea had occurred to him of asking the dean to see 
to this. But the other would be the more independent course, and the 
better. And there was a matter as to which he was not altc^ether 
well pleased with the dean, although he was so conscious of his own 
peculiarities as to know that he could hardly trust himself for a judg- 
ment. But, at any rate, he would apply to the bishop, — to the bishop 
whom he had just left prostrate in his palace, — when the time of his 
trial should be close at hand. 

Pull of such thoughts as these he went along almost gaily, nor felt 
the fatigue of the road till he had covered the first five miles out of 
Barchester. It was nearly four o'clock, and the thick gloom of the 
winter evening was making itself felt. And then he began to be 
fatigued. He had not as yet eaten since he had left his home in the 
morning, and he now pulled a crust out of his pocket and leaned against 
a gate as he crunched it. There were still ten mileB before him, and 
he knew that such an addition to the work he had already done would 
task him very severely. Parmer Mangle had told him that he would 

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not leave Framley Mill till five, and he had got time to reach Framley 
Mill by that time. But he had said that he would not return to 
Framley Mill, and he remembered his suspicion that his wife and 
farmer Mangle between them had cozened him. No; he would 
persevere and walk, — walk, though he should drop upon the road. He 
was now nearer fifty than forty years of age, and hardships as well as 
time had told upon hiuL He knew that though his strength was good 
for the commencement of a hard day's work, it would not hold out for 
Mm as it used to do. He knew that the last four miles in the dark 
night would be very sad with him. But still he persevered, en- 
deavouring, as he went, to cherish himself with the remembrance of 
his triumph. 

He passed the turning going down to Framley with courage, but 
when he came to the further turning, by which the cart would return 
from Framley to the Hogglestock road, he looked wistfully down the 
road for farmer Mangle. But farmer Mangle was still at the mill, 
waiting in expectation that Mr. Crawley might come to him. But the 
poor traveller paused here barely for a minute, and Jhen went on, 
stumbling through the mud, striking his ill-covered feet against the 
rough stones in the dark, sweating in his weakness, almost tottering at 
times, and calculating whether his remaining strength would serve to 
carry him home. He had almost forgotten the bishop and his wife 
before at last he grasped the wicket gate leading to his own door. 

" Oh, mamma, here is papa ! " 

" But where is the cart 1 I did not hear the wheels," said Mrs. 

" Oh, mamma, I think papa is ill." Then the wife took her drooping 
husband by both arms and strove to look him in the face. " He had 
walked all the way, and he is ill," said Jane. 

" No, my dear, I am very tired, but not iU. Let me sit down, and 
give me some bread and tea, and I shall recover myself." Then Mrs. 
Crawley, from some secret hoard, got him a small modicum of spirits, 
and gave him meat and tea, and he was docile; and, obeying her 
behests, allowed himself to be taken to his hed. 

" I do not think the bishop will send for me again," he said, as she 
tucked the clothes around him. 

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When Christmas morning came no emissary from the bishop appeared 
at Hogglestock to interfere with the ordinary performance of the day's 
services. " I think we need fear no further disturbance," Mr. Crawley 
said to his wife, — -and there was no further disturbance. 

On the day after his walk from Framley to Barchester, and from 
Barchester back to Hogglestock, Mr. Crawley had risen not much the 
worse for his labour, and had gradually given to his wife a full account 
of what had taken place. " A poor weak man," he said, speaking of 
the bishop. " A poor weak creature, and much to be pitied." 

" I have always heard that she is a violent woman." 

" Very violent, and very ignorant ; and most intrusive withal." 

"And you did not answer her a word 1 " 

" At last my forbearance with her broke down, and I bade her mind 
her distaff." 

" What ; — ^really ? Did you say those words to her ? " 

"Nay; as for my exact words I cannot remember them. I was 
thinking more of the words with which it might be fitting that I should 
answer the bishop. But I certainly told her that she had better mind 
her distaff." 

" And how did she behave then 1 " 

" I did not wait to see. The bishop had spoken, and I had replied; 
and why should I tarry to behold the woman^s violence? I had told 
him that he was wrong in law, and that I at least would not submit to 
usurped authority. There was nothing to keep me longer, and so I 
went without much ceremony of leave-taking. There had been little 
ceremony of greeting on their part, and there was less in the making 
of adieux on mina They had told me that I was a thief ^" 

" No, Josiah,— surely not sol They did not use that very word!" 

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" I say they did ; — they did use the very word. But stop. I am 
"wrong. I wrong his lordship, and I crave pardon for having done so. 
If my memory serve me, no expression so harsh escaped from the 
bishop's mouth. He gave me, indeed, to understand more than once 
that the action taken by the magistrates was tantamount to a conviction, 
and that I must be guilty because they had decided that there was 
evidence sufi&cient to justify a trial. But all that arose from my lord's 
ignorance of the administration of the laws of his country. He was 
very ignorant, — puzzle-pated, as you may call it, — led by the nose by 
his wife, weak as water, timid, and vacillating. But he did not wish, 
I think, to be insolent. It was Mrs. Proudie who told me to my face 
that I was a — thief." 

** May she be punished for the cruel word ! " said Mrs. Crawley. 
" May the remembrance that she has spoken it come, some day, heavily 
upon her heart ! " 

"* Vengeance is mine. I will repay, saith the Lord,'" answered Mr. 
Crawley. " We may safely leave all that alone, and rid our minds of 
such wishes, if it be possible. It is well, I think, that violent offences, 
when committed, should be met by instant rebuke. To turn the other 
cheek instantly to the smiter can hardly be suitable in these days, 
when the hands of so many are raised to strike. But the return blow 
should be given only while the smart remains. She hurt me then ; but 
what is it to me now, that she called me a thief to my face 1 Do I not 
know that, aU the country round, men and women are calling me the 
same behind my back ] " 

"No, Josiah, you do not know that. They say that the thing is 
very strange, — so strange that it requires a trial ; but no one thinks 
you have taken that which was not your own." 

" I think I did. I myself think I took that which was not my own. 
My poor head suffers so ; — so many grievous thoughts distract me, that 
I am like a child, and know not what I do." As he spoke thus he put 
both hands up to his head, leaning forward as though in anxious 
thought, — as though he were striving to bring his mind to bear with 

accuracy upon past events. " It could not have been mine, and yet " 

Then he sat silent, and made no effort to continue his speech. 

"And yet]" — said his wife, encouraging him to proceed. If she 
could only learn the real truth, she thought that she might perhaps 
yet save him, with assistance from their friends. 

VOL. I. N 

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" When I said that I had gotten it from that man I must have been 

" From which man, love 1 " 

" From the man Soames, — he who accuses me. And yet, as the 
Lord hears me, I thought so then. The truth is, that there are times 
when I am not — salle. I am not a thief, — not before God ; but I am 
— ^mad at times." These last words he spoke very slowly, in a whisper, 
-T^without any excitement, — indeed with a composure which was 
horrible to witness. And what he said was the more terrible because 
she was so well convinced of the truth of his words. Of course he was 
no thief. She wanted no one to tell her that. As he himself had 
expressed it, he was no thief before God, however the money might 
have come into his possession. That there were times when his reason, 
once so fine and clear, could not act, could not be trusted to guide him 
right, she had gradually come to know with fear and trembling. But 
he himseK had never before hinted his own consciousness of this 
calamity. Indeed he had been so unwilling to speak of himself and 
of his own state, that she had been unable even to ask him a question 
about the money, — ^lest he should suspect that she suspected him. Now 
he was speaking, — ^but speaking with such heart-rending sadness that 
she could hardly urge him to go on. 

*^ You have sometimes been ill, Josiah, as any of us may be," she 
said, " and that has been the cause." 

" There are different kinds of sickness. There is sickness of the 
body, and sickness of the heart, and sickness of the spirit ; — ^and then 
there is sickness of the mind, the worst of all." 

" With you, Josiah, it has chiefly been the first." 

" With me, Mary, it has been all of them, — every one I My spiiit 
is broken, and my mind has not been able to keep its even tenour 
amidst the ruins. But I will strive. I will strive. I will strive stilL And 
if God helps me, I will prevail." Then he took up his hat and cloak, and 
went forth among the lanes ; and on this occasion his wife was glad 
that he should go alone. 

This occurred a day or two before Christmas, and Mrs. Crawley 
during those days said nothing more to her husband on the subject 
which he had so unexpectedly discussed. She asked him no questions 
about the money, or as to the possibility of his exercising his memory, 
nor did she counsel him to plead that the false excuses given by him 

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for his possession of the cheque had been occasioned by the sad slip to 
which sorrow had in those days subjected his memory and his intellect. 
But the matter had always been on her mind. Might it not be her 
paramount duty to do something of this at the present moment 1 Might 
it not be that his acquittal or conviction would depend on what she 
might now learn from him ] It was clear to her that he was brighter 
in spirit since his encounter with the Proudies than he had ever been 
since the accusation had been iirst made against him. And she knew 
well that his present mood would not be of long continuance. He 
would fall again into his moody silent ways, and then the chance of 
learning aught from him would be past, and, perhaps, for ever. 

He performed the Christmas services with nothing of special 
despondency in his tone or manner, and his wife thought that she had 
never heard him give the sacrament with more impressive dignity. 
After the service he stood awhile at the churchyard gate, and exchanged 
a word of courtesy as to the season with such of the families of the 
farmers as had stayed for the Lord's Supper. 

"I waited at Framley for your reverence till arter six, — so I did,'* 
said farmer Mangle. 

" I kept the road, and walked the whole way," said Mr. Crawley. 
" I think I told you that I should not return to the mill. But I am 
not the less obb'ged by your great kindness." 

" Say nowt o that," said the farmer. " No doubt I had business at 
the mill, — lots to do at the mill." Nor did he think that the fib he 
was telling was at all incompatible with the Holy Sacrament in which 
he had just taken a part. 

The Christmas dinner at the parsonage was not a repast that did 
much honour to the season, but it was a better dinner than the in- 
habitants of that house usually saw on the board before them. There 
was roast-pork, and mince-pies, and a bottle of wine. As Mrs. Crawley 
with her own hand put the meat upon the table, and then, as was her 
custom in their house, proceeded to cut it up, she loooked at her hus- 
band's face to see whether he was scrutinizing the food with painful 
eye. It was better that she should tell the truth at once than that she 
should be made to tell it, in answer to a question. Everything on tho 
table, except the bread and potatoes, had come in a basket from 
I'ramley Court. Pork had been sent instead of bee^ because people in 
the country, when they kill their pigs, do sometimes give each other 


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pork, — ^but do not exchange joints of beef, when they slay their oxen. 
All this was understood by Mrs. Crawley, but she almost wished that 
beef had been sent, because beef would have attracted less attention. 
He said, however, nothing to the meat ; but when his wife proposed 
to him that he should eat a mince-pie he resented it. " The bare food," 
said he, " is bitter enough, coming as it does ; but that would choke 
me." She did not press it, but eat one herself, as otherwise her girl 
would have been forced also to refuse the dainty. 

That evening, as soon as Jane was in bed, she resolved to ask him 
some further questions. "You will have a lawyer, Josiah, — ^will you 
not ] " she said. 

" Why should I have a lawyer ? " 

" Because he will know what questions to ask, and how questions on 
the other side should be answered.'* 

" I have no questions to ask, and there is only one way in which 
questions should be answered. I have no money to pay a lawyer." 

" But, Josiah, in such a case as this, where your honour and our 
very life depend upon it " 

"Depend on what]" 

" On your acquittal." 

" I shall not be acquitted. It is as well to look it in the face at 
once. Lawyer, or no lawyer, they will say that I took the money. 
Were I upon the jury, trying the case myself, knowing all that I know 
now," — and as he said this he struck forth with his hands into the air, 
— " I think that I should say so myself. A lawyer will do no good. 
It is here. It is here." And again he put his hands up to his head. 

So far she had been successful. At this moment it had in truth been 
her object to induce him to speak of his own memory, and not of the 
aid that a lawyer might give. The proposition of the lawyer had been 
brought in to introduce the subject. 

" But, Josiah " 


It was very hard for her to speak. She could not bear to torment 
him by any allusion to his own deficiencies. She could not endure to 
make him think that she suspected him of any frailty either in intel- 
lect or thought. Wifelike, she desired to worship him, and that he 
should know that she worshipped him. But if a word might save him ! 
" Josiah, where did it come from ] " 

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" Yes," said he ; " yes ; that is the question. Where did it come 
from]" — and he turned sharp upon her, looking at her with all the 
power of his eyes. " It is because I cannot tell you where it came from 
that I ought to be, — either in Bedlam as a madman, or in the county 
gaol as a thief." The words were so dreadful to her that she could not 
utter at the moment another syllable. "How is a man, — to think 
himseK — fit — for a man's work, when he cannot answer his wife such 
a plain question as that ] " Then he paused again. " They should take 
me to Bedlam at once, — at once, — at once. That would not disgrace 
the children as the gaol will do." 

Mrs. Crawley could ask no further questions on that evening. 



It had been suggested to Mr. Eobarts, the parson of Framley, that he 
should endeavour to induce his old acquaintance, Mr. Crawley, to employ 
a lawyer to defend him at his trial, and Mr. Eobarts had not forgotten 
the commission which he had undertaken. But there were difficulties 
in the matter of which he was well aware. In the first place Mr. Crawley 
was a man whom it had not at any time been easy to advise on matters 
private to himself ; and, in the next place, this was a matter on which 
it was very hard to speak to the man implicated, let him be who he 
would. Mr. Eobarts had come round to the generally accepted idea that 
Mr. Crawley had obtained possession of the cheque illegally, — ^acquitting 
his friend in his own mind of theft, simply by supposing that he was 
wool-gathering when the cheque came in his way. But in speaking to 
Mr. Crawley, it would be necessary, — so he thought, — to pretend a 
conviction that Mr. Crawley was as innocent in fact as in intention. 

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He had almost made xip his mind to dash at the subject when he met 
Mr. Crawley walking through Framley to Barchester, but he had 
abstained, chiefly because Mr. Crawley had been too quick for him, and 
had got away. After that he resolved that it would be almost useless 
for him to go to work unless he should be provided with a lawyer 
ready and willing to undertake the task ; and as he was not so provided 
at present, he made up his mind that he would go into Silverbridge 
and see Mr. Walker, the attorney there. Mr. Walker always advised 
everybody in those parts about everything, and would be sure to know 
what would be the proper thing to be done in tliis case. So Mr. Robarts 
got into his gig, and drove himself into Silverbridge. He drove at 
once to Mr. Walker's office, and on arriving there found that the 
attorney was not at that moment within. But Mr. Winthrop was 
within. Would Mr. Robarts see Mr. Winthrop? Now, seeing Mr. 
Winthrop was a very different thing from seeing Mr. Walker, although 
the two gentlemen were partnei-s. But still Mr. Robarts said that 
he would see Mr. Winthrop. Perhaps Mr. Walker might return while 
he was there. 

" Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Robarts % " aske4 Mr. 
Winthrop. Mr. Robarts said that he had wished to see Mr. Walker 
about that poor fellow Crawley. "Ah, yes ; very sad case ! So much 
sadder being a clergyman, Mr. Robarts. We are really quite sorry for 
him ; — we are indeed. We wouldn't have touched the case ourselves 
if we could have helped ourselves. We wouldn't indeed. But we are 
obliged to take all that business here. At any rate he'll get nothing 
but fair usage from us." 

" I am sure of that. You don't know whether he has employed any 
lawyer as yet to defend him 1 " 

" I can't say. We don't know, you know. I should say he had, — 
probably some Barchester attorney. Borleys and Bonstock in Barchester 
are very good people, — very good people indeed; — for that sort of 
business I mean, Mr. Robarts. I don't suppose they have much county 
property in their hands." 

Mr. Robarts knew that Mr. Winthrop was a fool and that he could 
get no useful advice from him. So he Suggested that he would take his 
gig down to the inn, and call again before long. "You'll find that 
Walker knows no more than I do about it," said Mr. Winthrop, " but 
of course he'll be glad to see you if he happens to come in." So Mr 

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Eobarts went to the inn, put np his horse, and then, as he sauntered 
back up the street, met Mr. Walker coming out of the private door of 
Lis house. 

" IVe been at home all the morning," he said, " but I've had a stiff 
job of work on hand, and told them to say in the office that I was not 
in. Seen Winthrop, have you ] I don't suppose he did know that I 
was here. The clerks often know more than the partners. About Mr. 
Crawley is it I Come into my dining-room, Mr. Eobarts, where we 
shall be alone. Yes ; — ^it is a bad case ; a very bad case. The pity is 
that anybody should ever have said anything about it. Lord bless me, 
if I'd been Soames Td have let him have the twenty pounds. Lord 
Lufton would never have allowed Soames to lose it." 

" But Soames wanted to find out the truth." 

" Yes ; — that was just it Soames couldn't bear to think that he 
should be left in the dark, and then, when the poor man said that 
Soames had paid the cheque to him in the way of business, — it was not 
odd that Soames* back should have been up, was it ] But, Mr. Eobarts, 
1 should have thought a deal about it before I should have brought 
such a man as Mr. Crawley before a bench of magistrates on that 

" But between you and me, Mr. Walker, did he steal the money ? " 

<* Well, Mr. Eobarts, you know how I'm placed." 

"Mr. Crawley is my friend, and of course I want to assist him. I 
was under a great obligation to Mr. Crawley once, and I wish to befriend 
him, whether he took the money or not. But I could act so much 
better if I felt sure one way or the other." 

" If you ask me, I think he did take it" 

" What !— stole it r* 

'* I think he knew it was not his own when he took it. You see I 
don't think he meant to use it when he took it. He perhaps had some 
que^ idea that Soames had been hard on him, or his lordship, and that 
the money was fairly his due. Then he kept the cheque by him till he 
was absolutely badgered out of his life by the butcher up the street 
there. That was about the long and the short of it, Mr. Eobarts." 

" I suppose so. And now what had he better do 1 " 

" Well ; if you ask me He is in very bad health, isn't he 1 " 

" No ; I should say not He walked to Barchester and back the 
other day." 

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" Bid lie 1 But he's very queer, isn't he 1 " 

"Very odd mannered indeed." 

** And does and says all manner of odd things ? " * 

" I think you'd find the bishop would say so after that interview." 

"Well; if it would do any good, jfou might have the bishop 

" Examined for what, Mr. Walker 1 " 

" If you could show, you know, that Crawley has got a bee in his 
bonnet ; that the mens sana is not there, in short; — I think you might 
manage to have the trial postponed." 

" But then somebody must take charge of his living." 

" You parsons could manage that among you ; — you and the dean 
and the archdeacon. The archdeacon has always got half-a-dozen 
curates about somewhere. And then, — after the assizes, Mr. Crawley 
might come to his senses ; and I think, — mind it's only an idea, — but 
I think the committal might be quashed. It would have been temporary 
insanity, and, — though mind I don't give my word for it, — I think he 
might go on and keep his living. I think so, Mr. Eobarts." 

" That has never occurred to me." 

" No ; — I daresay not. You see the difficulty is this. He's so stiff- 
necked, — ^will do nothing himself. WeU, that will do for one proof 
of temporary insanity. The real truth is, Mr. Eobarts, he is as mad as 
a hatter." 

" Upon my word I've often thought so." 

" And you wouldn't mind saying so in evidence, — ^would you ? Well, 
you see, there is no helping such a man in any other way. He won't 
even employ a lawyer to defend him." 

" That was what I had come to you about." 

" I'm told he won't. Now a man must be mad who won't employ a 
lawyer when he wants one. You see, the point we should gain would 
be this, — if we tried to get him through as being a little touched in the 
upper story, — ^whatever we could do for him, we could do against his 
own will. The more he opposed us the stronger our case would be. 
He would swear he was not mad at all, and we should say that that was 
the greatest sign of his madness. But when I say we, of course I mean 
you. I must not appear in it." 

" I wish you could, Mr. Walker." 

" Of course I can't; but that won't make any difference." 

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" I suppose he must have a lawyer % " 

" Yes, he must have a lawyer ; — or rather his friends must." 

" And who should employ him, ostensibly ] '* 

" Ah ; — there's the difl&culty. His wife wouldn't do it, I suppose 1 
She couldn't do him a better turn." 

" He would never forgive her. And she would never consent to act 
against him." 

" Could you interfere 1 " 

** If necessary, I will ; — ^but I hardly know him well enough." 

*' Has he no father or mother, or uncles or aunts 1 He must have 
somebody belonging to him," said Mr. Walker. 

Then it occurred to Mr. Eobarts that Dean Arabin would be the 
proper person to interfere. Dean Arabin and Mr. Crawley had been 
intimate friends in early life, and Dean Arabin knew more of him than 
did any man, at least in those parts. All this Mr. Eobarts explained 
to Mr. Walker, and Mr. Walker agreed with him that the services of 
Dean Arabin should if possible be obtained. Mr. Eobarts would at 
once write to Dean Arabin and explain at length all the circumstances 
of the case. ** The worst of it is, he will hardly be home in time," said 
Mr. Walker. " Perhaps he would come a little sooner if you were to 
press it ] " 

" But we could act in his name in his absence, I suppose ? — of course 
with his authority 1 " 

" I wish he could be here a month before the assizes, Mr. Eobarts. 
It would be better." 

" And in the mean time shall I say anything to Mr. Crawley, myself, 
about employing a lawyer ] " 

" I think I would. If he turns upon you, as like enough he may, 
and abuses you, that will help us in one way. If he should consent, 
and perhaps he may, that would help us in the other way. I'm told 
he's been over and upset the whole coach at the palace." 

" I shouldn't think the bishop got much out of him," said the parson. 

"I don't like Crawley the less for speaking his mind free to the bishop," 
said the attorney, laughing. " And he'll speak it free to you too, Mr. 

** He won't break any of my bones. Tell me, Mr. Walker, what lawyer 
shall I name to him % " 

" You can't have a better man than Mr. Mason, up the street there." 

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" Winthrop proposed Borleys at Barch ester.** 

" No, no, no. Borleys and Bonstock are capital people to push a 
fellow tlirough on a charge of horse-stealing, or to squeeze a man for a 
little money ; but they are not the people for Mr. Cmwley in such a 
case as this. Mason is a better man ; and then Mason and I know each 
other.** In saying which Mr. Walker winked. 

There was then a discussion between them whether Mr. Koharts 
should go at once to Mr. Mason ; but it was decided at last that he 
should see Mr. Crawley and also write to the dean before he did so. 
The dean might wish to employ his own lawyer, and if so the double 
expense should be avoided. "Always remember, Mr. Eobarts, that 
when you go into an attorney's ofl&ce-door, you will Jiave to pay for it, 
lirst or last. In here, you see, the dingy old mahogany, bare as it is, 
makes you safe. Or else it*s the salt-cellar, which will not allow itself 
to be polluted by six-and-eightpenny considerations. But there is the 
other kind of tax to be paid. You must go up and see Mrs. Walker, 
or you won*t have her help in this matter.** 

Mr. Walker returned to his work, either to some private den within 
his house, or to his office, and Mr. Robarts was taken upstairs to the 
drawing-room. There he found Mrs. Walker and her daughter, and 
Miss Anne Prettyman, who had just looked in, full of the story of Mr. 
Crawley*s walk to Barchester. Mr. Thumble had seen one of Dr. 
Tempest's curates, and had told the whole story, — ^he, Mr. Thumble, 
having heard Mrs. Proudie*s version of what had occurred, and having, 
of course, drawn his own deductions from her premises. And it seemed 
that Mr. Crawley had been watched as he passed through the close out 
of Barchester. A minor canon had seen him, and had declared that 
he was going at the rate of a hunt, swinging his arms on high and 
speaking very loud, though, — as the minor canon said with regret, — 
the words were hardly audible. But there had been no doubt as to 
the man. Mr. Crawley*s old hat, and short rusty cloak, and dirty 
boots, had been duly observed and chronicled by the minor canon ; 
and Mr. Thumble had been enabled to put together a not altogether 
false picture of what had occurred. As soon as the greetings between 
Mr. Eobarts and the ladies had been made. Miss Anne Prettyman 
broke out again, just where she had left off when Mr. Robarts came 
in. " They say that Mrs. Proudie declared that she will have him 
sent to Botany Bay ! '* 

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" Luckily Mrs. Proudie won't have much to do in the matter," said 
Miss Walker, who ranged herseK, as to Church matters, in ranks 
altogether opposed to those commanded hy Mrs. Proudie. 

" She will have nothing to do with it, my dear," said Mrs. Walker ; 
" and I daresay Mrs. Proudie was not foolish enough to say anything 
of the kind." . 

" Mamma, she would he fool enough to say anything. Would she 
not, Mr. Eoharts?" 

"You forget. Miss Walker, that Mrs. Proudie is in authority over me." 

** So she is, for the matter of that," said the young lady ; " hut I 
know very well what you all think of her, and say of her too, at 
Framley. Tour friend. Lady Lufton, loves her dearly. I wish I could 
have heen hidden hehind a curtain in the palace, to hear what Mr 
Crawley said to her." 

" Mr. Smillie declares," said Miss Anne Prettyman, " that the hishop 
has been ill ever since. Mr. Smillie went over to his mother's at 
Earchester for Christmas, and took part of the cathedral duty, and we 
had Mr. Spooner over here in his place. So Mr. Smillie of course 
heard all about it. Only fancy, poor Mr. Crawley walking all the way 
from Hogglestock to Barchester and back ; — and I am told he hardly 
had a shoe to his foot ! Is it not a shame, Mr. Robarts ] " 

" I don't think it was quite so bad as you say. Miss Prettyman ; 
but, upon the whole, I do think it is a shame. But what can we do ] " 

" I suppose there are tithes at Hoggle^^tock. Why are they not given 
up to the church, as they ought to be ] " 

" My dear Miss Prettyman, that is a very large subject, and I am 
afraid it cannot be settled in time to relieve our poor friend from his 
distress." Then Mr. Bobarts escaped from the ladies in Mr. Walker's 
house, who, as it seemed to him, were touching upon diangerous ground, 
and went back to the yard of the " George Inn " for his gig, — the 
" George and Vulture" it was properly called, and was the house in which 
the magistrates had sat when they committed Mr. Crawley for trial. 

" Footed it every inch of the way, blowed if he didn't," the ostler 
was saying to a gentleman's groom, whom Mr. Eobarts recognized to 
be the servant of his friend. Major Grantly ; and Mr. Kobarts knew 
that they also were talking about Mr. Crawley. Everybody in the 
county was talking about Mr. Crawley. At home, at Framley, there 
was no other subject of discourse. Lady Lufton, the dowager, was full 

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of it, being firmly convinced that Mr. Crawley was innocent, because 
the bishop was supposed to regard him as guilty. There had been a 
family conclave held at Framley Court over that basket of provisions 
which had been sent for the Christmas cheer of the Hogglestock 
parsonage, each of the three ladies, the two Lady Luftons and Mrs. 
Eobarts, having special views of their own. How the pork had been 
substituted for the beef by old Lady Lufton, young Lady Lufton 
thinking that after all the beef would be less dangerous, and how a 
small turkey had been rashly suggested by Mrs. Eobarts, and how . 
certain small articles had been inserted in the bottom of the basket 
which Mrs. Crawley had never shown to her husband, need not here 
be told at lengtL But Mr. Eobarts, as he heard the two grooms talking 
about Mr. Crawley, began to feel that Mr. Crawley had achieved at 
least celebrity. 

The groom touched his hat as Mr. Eobarts walked up. "Has the 
major returned home yet ] " Mr. Eobarts asked. The groom said that 
his master was still at Plumstead, and that he was to go over to 
Plums tead to fetch the major and Miss Edith in a day or two. Then 
Mr. Eobarts got into his gig, and as he drove out of the yard he 
heard the words of the men as they returned to the same subject. 
" Footed it all the way," said one. " And yet he*s a gen'leman, too," 
said the other. Mr. Eobarts thought of this as he drove on, intending 
to call at Hogglestock on that very day on his way home. It was 
undoubtedly the fact that Mr. Crawley was recognized to be a gentle- 
man by all who knew him, high or low, rich or poor, by those who 
thought well of him and by those who thought ill. These grooms 
who had been telling each other that this parson, who was to be tried 
as a thief, had been constrained to walk from Hogglestock to Bar- 
chester and back, because he could not afford to travel in any other 
way, and that his boots were cracked and his clothes ragged, had still 
known him to be a gentleman 1 Nobody doubted it ; not even they 
who thought he had stolen the money. Mr. Eobarts himself was 
certain of it, and told himself that he knew it by evidences which his 
own education made clear to him. But how was it that the grooms 
knew it 1 For my part I think that there are no better judges of the 
article than the grooms. 

Thinking still of all which he had heard, Mr. Eobarts found himself 
at Mr. Crawley's gate at Hogglestock. 

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Mb. Robabts was not altogether easy in his mind as he approached 
Mr. Crawley's house. He was aware that the task before him was a 
very difi&cult one, and he had not confideDce in himself, — ^that he was 
exactly the man fitted for the performance of such a task. He was 
•* a little afraid of Mr. Crawley, acknowledging tacitly to himself that 
the man had a power of ascendancy with which he would hardly be 
able to cope successfully. In old days he had once been rebuked by 
Mr. Crawley, and had been cowed by the rebuke ; and though there 
was no touch of rancour in his heart on this account, no slightest 
remaining venom, — but rather increased respect and friendship, — still 
he was unable to overcome the remembrance of the scene in which 
the perpetual curate of Hogglestock had undoubtedly had the mastery 
of him. So, when two dogs have fouglit and one has conquered, 
the conquered dog will always show an unconscious submission to 
the conqueror. 

He hailed, a boy on the road as he drew near to the house, knowing 
that he would find no one at the parsonage to hold his horse for him, 
and was thus able without delay to walk through the garden and 
knock at the door. "Papa was not at home," Jane said. "Papa was 
at tne school. But papa could certainly be summoned. She herself 
would run across to the school if Mr. Robarts would come in." So 
Mr. Robarts entered, and found Mrs. Crawley in the sitting-room. 
Mr. Crawley would be in directly, she said. And then, hurrying on 
to the subject with confused haste, in order that a word or two might 
be spoken before her husband came back, she expressed her thanks 
and his for the good things which had been sent to them at Christmas- 
tide. ' 

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" It's old Lady Lufton's doings," said Mr. Robarts, trying to laugh 
the matter over. 

" I knew that it came from Framley, Mr. Robarts, and I know how 
good you all are there. 1 have not written to thank Lady Lufton. I 
thought it better not to write. Your sister will understand why, if no 
one else does. But you will tell them from me, I am sure, that it was, 
as they intended, a comfort to us. Your sister knows too much of us 
for me to suppose that our great poverty can be secret from her. And, 
as far as I am concerned, I do not now much care who knows it." 

" There is no disgrace in not being rich," said Mr. Robarts. 

" 'No ; and the feeling of disgrace which does attach itself to being 
so poor as we are is deadened by the actual suffering which such poverty 
brings with it. At least it has become so with me. I am not ashamed 
to say that I am very grateful for what you all have done for us at 
Framley. But you must not say anything to him about that." 

" Of course I will not, Mrs. Crawley." 

" His spirit is higher than mine, I think, and he suffers more from 
the natural disinclination which we all have to receiving alms. Are 
you going to speak to him about this affair of the — cheque, Mr. 

" I am going to ask him to put his case into some lawyer's hands." 

"Oh! I wish he would ! " 

"And will he not?" 

" It is very kind of you, your coming to ask him, but " 

" Has he so strong an objection 1 " 

" He will tell you that he has no money to pay a la-vvyer." 

" But, surely, if he were convinced that it was absolutely necessary 
for the vindication of his innocence, he would submit to charge liim- 
self with an expense so necessary, not only for himself, but for his 

" He will say it ought not to be necessary. You know, Mr. Robarts, 
that in some respects he is not like other men. You will not let what 
I say of him set you against him ? " 

" Indeed, no." 

" It is most kind of you to make the attempt. He will be here 
directly, and when he comes I will leave you together." 

While she was yet speaking his step was heard along the gravel-path, 
and he hurried into the room with quick steps. " I crave your pardon, 

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Mr. Kobarts," he said, " that I should keep you waiting." Now Mr. 
Robarts had not been there ten minutes, and any such asking of pardon 
was hardly necessary. And, even in his own house, Mr. Crawley 
affected a mock humility, as though, either through his own debase- 
ment, or because of the superior station of the other clergyman, he 
were not entitled to put himself on an equal footing with his visitor. 
He would not have shaken hands with Mr. Robarts, — intending to in- 
dicate that he did not presume to do so while the present accusation 
was hanging over him,— had not the action been forced upon him. 
And then there was something of a protest in his manner, as though 
remonstrating against a thing that was unbecoming to him. Mr. 
Robarts, without analysing it, understood it all, and knew that behind 
the humility there was a crushing pride, — a pride which, in all proba- 
bility, would rise up and crush him before he could get himself out of 
the room again. It was, perhaps, after all, a question whether the man 
was not served rightly by the extremities to which he was reduced. 
There was something radically wrong within him, which had put him 
into antagonism with all the world, and which produced these never- 
dying grievances. There were majiy clergymen in the country with 
incomes as small as that which had fallen to the lot of Mr. Crawley, 
but they managed to get on without displaying their sores as Mr. 
Crawley displayed his. They did not wear their old rusty cloaks with 
all that ostentatious bitterness of jJoverty which seemed to belong to 
that garment when displayed on Mr. Crawley's shoulders. Such, for 
a moment, were Mr. Robarts' thoughts, and he almost repented himself 
of his present mission. But then he thought of Mrs. Crawley, and 
remembering that her sufferings were at any rate undeserved, deter- 
mined that he would persevere. 

Mrs. Crawley disappeared almost as soon as her husband appeared, 
and Mr. Robarts found himself standing in front of his friend, who 
remained fixed on the spot, with his hands folded over each other and 
his neck slightly bent forward, in token also of humility. " I regret," 
he said, "that your horse should be left there, exposed to the inclemency 
of the weather; but ** 

" The horse Won't mind it a bit," said Mr. Robarts. " A parson's 
horse is like a butcher's, and knows that he mustn't be particular 
about waiting in the cold." 

** I never have had one myself," said Mr. Crawley. Now Mr. Robarts 

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had had more horses than one before now, and had been thought by 
some to have incurred greater expense than was befitting in his stable 
comforts. The subject, therefore, was a sore one, and he was worried 
a little. " I just wanted to say a few words to you, Crawley," he said, 
" and if I am not occupying too much of your time " 

" My time is altogether at your disposal. Will you be seated 1 " 

Then Mr. Eobarts sat down, and, swinging his hat between his legs, 
bethought himself how he should begin his work. "We had the 
archdeacon over at Framley the other day," he said. " Of course you 
know the archdeacon 1 " 

" I never had the advantage of any acquaintance with Dr. Grantly. 
Of course I know him well by name and also personally, — that is, by 

" And by character 1 " 

" Nay ; I can hardly say so much as that. But I am aware that his 
name stands high with many of his order." 

" Exactly j that is what I mean. You know that his judgment is 
thought more of in clerical matters than that of any other clergyman in 
the county." * 

" By a certain party, Mr. Eobarts." 

"Well, yes. They don't think much of him, I suppose, at the 
palace. But that won't lower him in your estimation." 

" I by no means wish to derogate from Dr. Grantly's high position 
in his own archdeaconry, — to which, as you are aware, I am not 
attached, — ^nor to criticize his conduct in any respect. It would be 
unbecoming in me to do so. But I cannot accept it as a point in a 
clergyman's favour, that he should be opposed to his bishop." 

Now this was too much for Mr. Eobarts. After all that he had 
heard of the visit paid by Mr. Crawley to the palace, — of the venom 
displayed by Mrs. Proudie on that occasion, and of the absolute want 
of subordination to episcopal authority which Mr. Crawley himself was 
supposed to have shown, — Mr. Eobarts did feel it hard that his friend 
the archdeacon should be snubbed in this way because he was deficient 
in reverence for his bishop I " I thought, Crawley," he said, " that 
you yourseK were inclined to dispute orders coming to you from the 
palace. The world at least says as much concerning' you." 

" What the world says of me I have learned to disregard very mach. 

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Mr. Robarts. Bat I hope that I shall never disobey the authority of 
the Church when properly and legally exercised." 

" I hope with all my heart you never will ; nor I either. And the 
archdeacon, who knows, to the breadth of a hair, what a bishop ought 
to do and what he ought not, and what he may do and what he may 
not, will, I should say, be the last man in England to sin in that way." 

"Very probably. I am far from contradicting you there. Pray 
understand, Mr. Robarts, that I bring no accusation against the arch- 
deacon. Why should I ? " 

" I didn't mean to discuss him at alL" 

" Nor did I, Mr. Robarts." 

" I only mentioned his name, because, as I said, he was over with 
"US the other day at Framley, and we were all talking about your affair." 

" My affair ! " said Mr. Crawley. And then came a frown upon his 
brow, and a gleam of fire into his eyes, which effectually banished that 
look of extreme humility which he had assumed. " And may I ask 
why the archdeacon was disscussing — my affair] " 

** Simply from the kindness which he bears to you." 

" I am grateful for the archdeacon's kindness, as a man is bound to 
be for any kindness, whether displayed wisely or unwisely. But it 
seems to me that my affair, as you call it, Mr. Robarts, is of that nature 
that they who wish well to me will better further their wishes by silence 
than by any discussion." 

"Then I cannot agree with you." Mr. Crawley shrugged his 
shoulders, opened his hands a little and then closed them, and bowed 
his head. He could not have declared more clearly by any words that 
he differed altogether from Mr. Robarts, and that as the subject was 
one so peculiarly his own he had a right to expect that his opinion 
should be allowed to prevail against that of any other person. " If 
you come to that, you know, how is anybody's tongue to be 

" That vain tongues cannot be stopped, I am well aware. I do not 
expect that people's tongues should be stopped. I am not saying what 
men will do, but what good wishes should dictate." 

"Well, perhaps you'll hear me out for a minute." Mr. Crawley 
again bowed his head. " Whether we were wise or unwise, we were 
discussiiig this affiEiir." 

VOL. I. o 

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" Whether I stole Mr. Soames's money ] " 

^'No ; nobody supposed for a moment you had stolen it." 

"I cannot understand how they should suppose anything else, 
knowing, as they do, that the magistrates have committed me for the 
theft. This took place at Framley, you say, and probably in Lord 
Lufton*s presence." 

" Exactly." 

" And Lord Lufton was chairman at the sitting of the magistrates 
at which I was committed. How can it be that he should think 
otherwise ] " 

" I am sure he has not an idea that you were guilty. Nor yet has 
Dr. Thome, who was also one of the magistrates. I don't suppose one 
of them then thought so." 

" Then their action, to say the least of it, was very strange." 

"It was all because you had nobody to manage it for you. I 
thoroughly believe that if you had placed the matter in the hands of 
a good lawyer, you would never have heard a word more about it. 
That seems to be the opinion of everybody I speak to on the 

** Then in this country a man is to be punished or not, according to 
his ability to fee a lawyer ! " 

" I am not talking about punishment." 

** And presuming an innocent man to have the ability and not the 
will to do so, he is to be punished, to be ruined root and branch, self 
and family, character and pocket, simply because, knowing his own 
innocence, he does not choose to depend on the mercenary skill of a 
man whose trade he abhors for the establishment of that which should 
be clear as the sun at noon-day ! You say I am innocent, and yet you 
tell me I am to be condemned as a guilty man, have my gown taken 
from me, be torn from my wife and children, be disgraced before the 
eyes of all men, and be made a byword and a thing horrible to be 
mentioned, because I will not fee an attorney to fee another man to 
come and lie on my behalf, to browbeat witnesses, to make false appeals, 
and perhaps shed false tears in defending me. You have come to me 
asking me to do this, if I understand you, teUing me that the archdeacon 
would so advise me ? " 

" That is my object." Mr. Crawley, as he had spoken, had in his 
vehemence risen from his seat, and Mr. Eobarts was also standing. 

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" Then tell the archdeacon," said Mr. Ci-awley, " that I will have 
none of his advice. I will have no one there paid by me to obstruct 
the course of justice or to hoodwink a jury. I have been in courts of 
law, and know what is the work for which these gentlemen are hired. 
I will have none of it, and I will thank you to tell the archdeacon so, 
with my respectful acknowledgments of his consideration and conde- 
scension. I say nothing as to my own innocence, or my own guilt. 
But I do say that if I am dragged before that tribunal, an innocent 
man, and am falsely declared to be guilty, because I lack money to 
bribe a lawyer to speak for me, then the laws of this country deserve 
but little of that reverence which we are accustomed to pay to them. 
And if I be guilty '' 

" Nobody supposes you to be guilty." 

" And if I be guilty," continued Mr. Crawley, altogether ignoring 
the interruption, except by the repetition of his wonls, and a slight 
raising of his voice, " I will not add to my guilt by hiring any one to 
prove a falsehood or to disprove a truth." 

" I'm sorry that you should say so, Mr. Crawley." 

" I speak according to what light I have, Mr. Eobarts ; and if I 
have been over-warm with you, — and I am conscious that I have been 
in fault in that direction, — I must pray you to remember that I am 
somewhat hardly tried. My sorrows and troubles are so great that 
they rise against me and disturb me, and drive me on, — whither I 
would not be driven." 

" But, my friend, is not that just the reason why you should trust 
in this matter to some one who can be more calm than yourself 1 " 

** I cannot trust to any one, — in a matter of conscience. To do as 
you would have me is to me wrong. Shall I do wrong because I am 
unhappy 1 " 

" You should cease to think it wrong when so advised by peisons 
you can trust." 

" I can trust no one with my own conscience ; — ^not even the arch- 
deacon, great as he is." 

"The archdeacon has meant only well to you." 

" I will presume so. I will believe so. I do think so. Tell the 
archdeacon from me that I humbly thank him ;— that, in a matter of 
church question, I might probably submit my judgment to his, even 
though he might have no authority over me, knowing as I do that in 

o 2 

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such matters his experience has heen great. Tell him also, that though 
I would fain that this unfortunate affair might burden the tongue of 
none among my neighbours, — at least till I shall have stood before the 
judge to receive the verdict of the jury, and, if needful, his lordship's 
sentence, — ^still I am convinced that in what he has spoken, as also in 
what he has done, he has not yielded to the idleness of gossip, but has 
exercised his judgment with intended kindness." 

" He has certainly intended to do you a service ; and as for its not 
being talked about, that is out of the question." 

" And for yourself, Mr. Kobarts, whom I have ever regarded as a 
friend since circumstances brought me into your neighbourhood, — for 
you, whose sister I love tenderly in memory of past kindness, though 
now she is removed so far above my sphere as to make it unfit that I 
should call her my friend " 

" She does not think so at aU." 

" For yourself, as I was saying, pray believe me that though from 
the roughness of my manner, being now unused to social intercourse, 
I seem to be ungracious and forbidding, I am grateful and mindful, 
and that in the tablets of my heart I have written you down as one in 
whom I could trust, — ^wereit given to me to trust in men and women." 
Then he turned round with his face to the wall and his back to his 
visitor, and so remained till Mr. Robarts had left him. " At any rate 
I wish you well through your trouble," said Eobarts ; and as he spoke 
he found that his own words were nearly choked by a sob that was 
rising in his throat. 

He went away without another word and got out to his gig without 
seeing Mrs. Crawley. During one period of the interview he had been 
very angry with the man, — so angry as to make him almost declare to 
himself that h^ would take no more trouble on his behalf. Then he 
had been brought to acknowledge that Mr. Walker was right, and that 
Crawley was certainly mad. He was so mad, so far removed from the 
dominion of sound sense, that no jury could say that he was guilty 
and that he ought to be punished for his guilt. And, as he so resolved, 
he could not but ask himself the question, whether the charge of the 
parish ought to be left in the hands of such a man % But at last, just 
before he went, these feelings and these convictions gave way to pity, 
and he remembered simply the troubles which seemed to have been 
heaped on the head of this poor victim to misfortune. As he drove 

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home he resolved that there was nothing left for him to do hut to write 
to the dean. It was known to all who knew them hoth, that the dean 
and Mr. Crawley had lived together on the closest intimacy at college, 
and that that friendship had heen maintained throu^^h life ; — though, 
from the peculiarity of Mr. Crawley's character, the two had not been 
much together of late years. Seeing how things were going now, and 
hearing how pitiful was the plight in Avhich Mr. Crawley was placed, 
the dean would, no doubt, feel it to be his duty to hasten his return 
to England. He was believed to be at this moment in Jerusalem, and 
it would be long before a letter could reach him ; but there still wanted 
three months to the assizes, and his return might be probably effected 
before the end of February. 

" I never was so distressed in my life," Mark Kobarts said to his 

"And you think you have done no good]" 

" Only this, that I have convinced myself that the poor man is not 
responsible for what he does, and that for her sake, as well as for his 
own, some person should be enabled to interfere for his protection." 
Then he told Mrs. Eobarts what Mr. Walker had said ; also the message 
which Mr. Crawley had sent to the archdeacon. But they both agreed 
that that message need not be sent on any further. 




Mr8. Thornb had spoken very plainly in the advice which she had 
given to Major Grantly. " If I were yon, I'd be at Allington before 
twelve o'clock to-morrow." That had been Mrs. Thome's advice ; and 
though Major Grantly had no idea of making the journey so rapidly as the 
lady had proposed, still he thought that he would make it before long, 

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and follow the advice in spirit if not to the letter. Mrs. Thome had 
asked him if it was fair that the girl should be punished because of the 
father's fault ; and the idea had been sweet to him that the infliction 
or non-infliction of such punishment should be in his hands. " You go 
and ask her," Mrs. Thome had said. Well ; — he would go and ask her. 
If it should turn out at last that he had married the daughter of a thief, 
and that he was disinherited for doing so, — ^an arrangement of circum- 
stances which he had to teach himself to regard as very probable, — he 
would not love Grace the less on that account, or allow himself for one 
moment to repent what he had done. As he thought of all this he 
became somewhat in love with a small income, and imagined to himself 
what honours would be done to him by the Mrs. Thornes of the county 
when they should come to know in what way he had sacrificed himself 
to his love. Yes ; — they would go and live at Pau. He thought Pan 
would do. He would have enough of income for that ; — and Edith 
would get lessons cheaply, and would learn to talk French fluently. He 
certainly would do it. He would go down to Allington, and ask Grace 
to be his wife ; and bid her understand that if she loved him she could 
not be justified in refusing him by the circumstances of her father's 

But he must go to Plumstead before he could go to Allington. He 
was engaged to spend his Christmas there, and must go now at once. 
There was not time for the journey to Allington before he was due at 
Plumstead. And, moreover, though he could not bring himself to 
resolve that he would tell his father what he was going to do, — " It 
would seem as though I were asking his leave ! " he said to himself, — 
he thought that he would make a clean breast of it to his mother. It 
made him sad to think that he should cut the rope which fastened his 
own boat among the other boats in the home harbour at Plumstead, and 
that he should go out all alone into strange waters, — turned adrift 
altogether, as it were, from the Grantly fleet. If he could only get the 
promise of his mother's sympathy for Gmce it would be something. 
He understood, — no one better than he, — the tendeitcy of all his family 
to an uprising in the world, which tendency was almost as strong in 
his mother as in his father. And he had been by no means without a 
similar ambition himself, though with him the ambition had been only 
fitful, not enduring. He had a brother, a clergyman, a busy, stirring, 
eloquent London preacher, who got churches built, and was heard of 

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far and wide as a rising man, who had married a certain Lady Anne, 
tlie daughter of an earl, and who was already mentioned as a candidate 
for high places. How his sister was the wife of a marquis, and a leader 
in the fashionable world, the reader already knows. The archdeacon 
himself was a rich man, so powerful that he could affoi-d to look down 
upon a bishop; and Mrs. Grantly, though there was left about her 
something of an old softness of nature, a touch of the former life which 
had been hers before the stream of her days had run gold, yet she, too, 
had taken kindly to wealth and high standing, and was by no means 
one of those who construe literally that passage of Sci'ipture which tells 
Tis of the camel and the needless eye. Our Henry Grantly, our major, 
knew himself to be his mother's favourite child, — knew himself to have 
become so since something of coolness had grown up between her and 
her august daughter. The augustness of the daughter had done much 
to reproduce the old freshness of which I have spoken in the mother's 
heart, and had specially endeared to her the son who, of all her children, 
was the least subject to the family failing. The clergyman, Charles 
Grantly, — he who had married the Lady Anne, — was his father's darling 
in these days. The old archdeacon would go up to London and be quite 
happy in his son's house. He met there the men whom he loved to 
meet, and heard the talk which he loved to hear. It was very fine having 
the Marquis of Hartletop for a son-in-law, but he had never cared to be 
mnch at Lady Hartletop's house. Indeed, the archdeacon cared to be 
in no house in which those around him were supposed to be bigger than 
himself Such was the family fleet from out of which Henry Grantly 
was now proposing to sail alone with his little boat, — ^taking Grace 
Crawley with him at the helm. ** My father is a just man at the bot- 
tom," he said to himself, " and though he may not forgive me, he will 
not punish Edith." 

But there was still left one of the family, — not a Grantly, indeed, 
but one so nearly allied to them as to have his boat moored in the same 
harbour, — who, as the major well knew, would thoroughly sympathize 
with him. This was old Mr. Harding, his mother's father, — the father 
of his mother and of his aunt Mrs. Arabin, — whose home was now at 
the deanery. He was also to be at Plumstead during this Christmas, 
and he at any rate would give a ready assent to such a marriage as that 
which the major was proposing for himself. But then poor old Mr. 
Harding had been thoroughly deficient in that ambition which had 

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served to aggrandize the family into whicli his daughter had married. 
He was a poor old man who, in spite of good friends, — for the late 
bishop of the diocese had been his dearest friend, — had never'risen high 
in his profession, and had fallen even from the moderate altitude which 
he had attained. But he was a man whom all loved who knew him ; 
and it was much to the credit of his son-in-law, the archdeacon, that, 
with all his tendencies to love rising suns, he had ever been true to 
Mr. Harding. 

Major Grantly took his daughter with him, and on his arrival at 
Plumstead she of course was the first object of attention. Mrs. Grantly 
declared that she had grown immensely. The archdeacon complimented 
her red cheeks, and said that Cosby Lodge was as healthy a place as 
any in the county, while Mr. Harding, Edith's great-grandfather, drew 
slowly from his pocket sundry treasures with which he had come 
prepared for the delight of the little girl. Charles Grantly and Lady 
Anne had no children, and the heir of all the Hartletops was too august 
to have been trusted to the embraces of his mother's grandfather. Edith, 
therefore, was all that he had in that generation, and of Edith he was 
prepared to be as indulgent as he had been, in their time, of his grand- 
children the Grantlys, and still was of his grandchildren the Arabins, 
and had been before that of his own daughters.* "She's more like 
Eleanor than any one else," said the old man in a plaintive tone. Now 
Eleanor was Mrs. Arabin, the dean's wife, and was at this time, — if I 
were to say over forty I do not think I should be uncharitable. ISo 
me else saw the special likeness, but no one else rememljered, as Mr. 

arding did, what Eleanor had been when she was three years old. 
Aunt Nelly is in France," said the child. 

" Yes, my darling, aunt NeUy is in France, and I wish she were at 
home. Aunt Nelly has been away a long time." 

** I suppose she'll stay tiU the dean picks her up on his way home % *' 
said Mrs. Grantly. 

" So she says in her letters. I heard from her yesterday, and I 
brought the letter, as I thought you'd like to see it." Mrs. Grantly 
took the letter and read it, while her father still played with the child. 
The archdeacon and the major were standing together on the rug 
discussing the shooting at Chaldicotes, as to which the archdeacon had 
a strong opinion. " I'm quite sure that a man with a place like that 
does more good by preserving than by leaving it alone. The better 

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h^Ad of game he has the richer the county will be generally. It is just 
the same with pheasants as it is with sheep and bullocks. A pheasant 
doesn't cost more than he's worth any more than a barn-door fowL 
Besides, a man who preserves is always respected by the poachers, and 
the man who doesn't is not." 

" There's something in that, sir, certainly," said the major. 

" More than you think for, perhaps. Look at poor Sowerby, who 
went on there for years without a shilling. How he was respected, 
because he lived as the people around him expected a gentleman to live. 
Thome will have a bad time of it if he tries to change things." 

" Only think," exclaimed Mrs. Grantly, *' when Eleanor wrote she 
had not heard of that affair of poor Mr. Crawley's 1 " 

" Does she say anything about him 1 " asked the major. 

" I'll read what she says. * I see in Galignani that a clergyman in 
Barsetshire has been committed for theft. Pray teU me who it is. Not 
the bishop, I hope, for the credit of the diocese 1 ' " 

" I wish it were," said the archdeacon. 

" For shame, my dear," said his wife. 

" No shame at alL If we are to have a thief among us, I'd sooner 
find him in a bad man than a good one. Besides, we should have a 
change at the palace, which would be a great thing." 

^ But is it not odd that Eleanor should have heard nothing pf it % " 
said Mrs. Grantly. 

" It's odd that you should not have mentioned it yourself." 

" I did not, certainly ; nor you, papa, I suppose ? " 

Mr. Harding acknowledged that he had not. spoken of it, and tlien 
they calculated that perhaps she might not have received any letter 
from her husband written since the news had reached him. " Besides, 
why should he have mentioned it ? " said the major. " He only knows 
as yet of the inquiry about the cheque, and can have heard nothing of 
what was done by the magistrates." 

-" Still it seems so odd that Eleanor should not have known of it, 
seeing that we have been talking of nothing else for the last week," 
said Mrs. Grantly. 

For two days the major said not a word of Grace Crawley to any 
one. Nothing could be more courteous and complaisant than was his 
father's conduct to him. Anything that he wanted for Edith was to 
be done. For himself there was no trouble which would not be taken. 

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His hunting, and his shooting, and his fishing seemed to have become 
matters of paramount consideration to his father. And then the arch- 
deacon became very confidential about money matters, — not offering 
anything to his son, which, as he well knew, would have been seen 
through as palpable bribery and corruption, — but telling him of this 
little scheme and of that, of one investment and of another ; — how he 
contemplated buying a small property here, and spending a few thousands 
on building there. " Of course it is all for you and your brother,*' said 
the archdeacon, with that benevolent sadness which is used habituaDy 
by fathei-s on such occasions ; " and I like you to know what it is that 
I am doing. I told Charles about the London property the last time 
I was up," said the archdeacon, "and there shall be no difference 
between him and you, if all goes welL" This was very good-natured 
on the archdeacon's part, and was not strictly necessary, as Charles was 
the eldest son ; but the major understood it perfectly. " There shall 
be an elysium opened to you, if only you will not do that terrible thing 
of which you spoke when last here." The archdeacon uttered no such 
words as these, and did not even allude to Grace Crawley ; but the 
words were as good as spoken, and had they been spoken ever so 
plainly the major could not have understood them more clearly. He 
was quite awake to the loveliness of the elysium opened before him. 
He had had his moment of anxiety, whether his father would or would 
not make an elder son of his brother Charles. The whole thing was 
now put before him plainly. Give up Grace Crawley, and you shall 
share alike with your brother. Disgrace yourself by marrying her, and 
your brother shall have everything. There was the choice, and it was 
still open to him to take which side he pleased. Were he never to go 
near Grace Crawley again no one would blame him, unless it were Miss 
Prettyman or Mi*s. Thome. " Fill your glass, Henry," said the arch- 
deacon. "You'd better, I tell you, for there is no more of it left." 
Then the major filled his glass and sipped the wine, and swore to him- 
self that he would go down to Allington at once. What ! Did his 
father think to bribe him by giving him '20 port? He would certainly 
go down to Allington, and he would tell his mother to-morrow morning, 
or certainly on the next day, what he was going to do. " Pity it 
should be all gone ; isn't it, sir ? " said the archdeacon to his father-in- 
law. " It has lasted my time," said Mr. Harding, " and I'm very much 
obliged to it. Dear, dear ; how well I remember your father- giving 

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the order for it ! There were two pipes, and somebody said it was a 
heady wine. * If the prebendaries and rectors can't drink it/ said your 
father, * the curates will/ " 

" Curates indeed ! " said the archdeacon. "It's too good for a bishop, 
unless one of the right sort." 

" Your father used to say those things, but with him the poorer the 
guest the better the cheer. When he had a few clergymen round him, 
how he loved to make them happy ! " 

" Never talked shop to them, did he ] " said the archdeacon. 

" Not after dinner, at any rate. Goodness gracious, when one thinks 
of it ! Do you remember how we used to play cards ? " 

" Every night regularly ; — ^threepenny points, and sixpence on the 
rubber," said the archdeacon. 

"Dear, dear ! How things are changed ! And I remember when the 
clergymen did more of the dancing in Barchester than all the other 
young men in the city put together." 

" And a good set they were ; — gentlemen every one of them. It's 
well that some of them doift dance now; — that is, for the girls' 

" I sometimes sit and wonder," said Mr. Harding, " whether your 
father's spirit ever comes back to the old house and sees the changes, — 
and if so whether he approves them." 

" Approves them ! " said the archdeacon. 

^ Well ; — yes. I think he would, upon the whole. I'm sure of 
this ; he would not disapprove, because the new ways are changed from 
his ways. He never thought himself infallible. And do you know, 
my dear, I am not sure that it isn't all for the best. I sometimes think 
that some of us were very idle when we were young. I was, I know." 

"I worked hard enough," said the archdeacon. 

" Ah, yes ; you. But most of us took it very easily. Dear, dear ! 
When I think of it, and see how hard they work now, and remember 
what pleasant times we used to have, — I don't feel sometimes quite 

" I believe the work was done a great deal better than it is now," 
said the archdeacon. " There wasn't so much fuss, but there was more 
reality. And men were men, and clergymen were gentlemen." 

" Yes ; — they were gentlemen." 

" Such a creature as that old woman at the palace couldn't have 

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held his head up among us. That's what has come from Reform. A 
reformed House of Commons makes Lord Brock Prime Minister, and 
then your Prime Minister makes Dr. Proudie a bishop ! Well ; — it 
will last my time, I suppose." 

" It has lasted mine, — like the wine," said Mr. Harding. 

" There's one glass more, and you shall have it, sir." Then Mr. 
Harding drank the last glass of the 1820 port, and they went into the 

On the next morning after breakfast the major went out for a walk 
by himself. His father had suggested to him that he should go over 
to shoot at Framley, and had offered him the use of everything the 
archdeaconry possessed in the way of horses, dogs, guns, and carriages. 
But the major would have none of these things. He would go out 
and walk by himself. " He's not thinking of her ; is he ? " said the 
archdeacon to his wife, in a whisper. " I don't know. I think he, is," 
said Mrs. Grantly. " It will be so much the better for Charles, if he 
does," said the archdeacon grimly ; and the look of his face as he spoke 
was by no means pleasant. " You will do nothing unjust, archdeacon," 
said his wife. " I will do as I like with my own," said he. And then 
he also went out and took a walk by himself. 

That evening after dinner, there was no 1820 port, and no recollec- 
tions of old days. They were rather dull, the three of them, as they 
sat together, — and dulness is always more unendurable than sadness. 
Old Mr. Harding went to sleep and the archdeacon was cross. " Henry," 
he said, " you haven't a word to throw to a dog." " I've got rather a 
headache this evening, sir," said the major. The archdeacon drank two 
glasses of wine, one after another, quickly. Then he woke his father- 
in-law gently, and went off. " Is there anything the matter ? " asked 
the old man. " JN'othing particular. My father seems to be a little 
cross." "Ah! I've been to sleep and I oughtn't. It's my fault. 
We'll go in and smooth him down." But the archdeacon wouldn't be 
smoothed down on that occasion. He would let his son see the differ- 
ence between a father pleased, and a father displeased, — or rather 
between a father pleasant, and a father unpleasant. " He hasn't said 
anything to you, has he ? " said the archdeacon that night to his wife. 
" Not a word ; — as yet." " If he does it without the courage to tell 
us, I shall think him a cur," said the archdeacon. " But he did tell 
you," said Mrs. Grantly, standing up for her favourite son; "and, for 

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the matter of that, lie has courage enough for anything. If he does 
it, I shall always say that he has been driven to it by your threats." 
" That's sheer nonsense," said the archdeacon. 
" It's not nonsense at all," said Mrs. Grantly. 
" Then I suppose I was to hold my tongue and say nothing 1 " said 
the archdeacon; and as he spoke he banged the door between his 
dressing-room and Mrs. Grantly's bed-room. 

On the first day of the new year Major Grantly spoke his mind to 
his mother. The archdeacon had gone into Barchester, having in vain 
attempted to induce his son to go with him. Mr. Harding was in the 
library reading a little and sleeping a little, and dreaming of old days 
and old friends, and perhaps, sometimes, of the old wine. Mrs. 
Grantly was alone in a small sitting-room which she frequented up- 
stairs, when" suddenly her son entered the room. " Mother," he said, 
" I think it better to teU you that I am going to AUington." 

"To Allington, Henry?" She knew very well who was at 
Allington, and what must be the business which would take him 

" Yes, mother. Miss Crawley is there, and there are circumstances 
which make it incumbent on me to see her without delay." 
" What circumstances, Henry ? " 

" As I intend to ask her to be my wife I think it best to do so now. 
I owe it to her and to myself that she should not think that I am 
deterred by her father's position." 

" But would it not be reasonable that you should be deterred by her 
father's position % " 

"1^0, I think not. I think it would be dishonest as well as 
ungenerous. I cannot bring myself to brook such delay. Of course 
I am alive to the misfortune which has fallen upon her, — upon her 
and me, too, should she ever become my wife. But it is one of 
those burdens which a man should have shoulders broad enough to 

** Quite so, if she were your wife, or even if you were engaged to 
her. Then honour would require it of you, as well as affection. As 
it is, your honour does not require it, and I think you should hesitate, 
for all our sakes, and especially for Edith's." 

** It will do Edith no harm ; and, mother, if you alone were 
concerned, I think you would feel that it would not hurt you." . 

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" I was not thinking of myself, Henry." 

" As for my father, the very threats which he has used make me 
conscious that I have only to measure the price. He has told me that 
he will stop my allowance." 

" But that may not be the worst. Think how you are situated. 
You are the younger son of a man who who will be held to be justified 
in making an elder son, if he thinks fit to do so." 

" I can only hope that he will be fair to Edith. If you will tell him 
that from me, it is all that I will ask you to do." 

** But you will see him yourself] " 

" No, mother ; not till I have been to Allington. Then I will see 
him again or not, just as he pleases. I shall stop at Guest wick, and 
will write to you a line from thence. If my father decides on doing 
anything, let me know at once, as it will be necessary that I should get 
rid of the lease of my house." 

" Oh, Henry ! " 

" I have thought a great deal about it, mother, and I believe I am 
right. Whether I am right or wrong, I shall do it. I will not ask 
you now for any promise or pledge ; but should Miss Crawley become 
my wife, I hope that you at least will not refuse to see her as your 
daughter." Having so spoken, he kissed his mother, and was about to 
leave the room ; but she held him by his arm, and be saw that her 
eyes were full of tears. " Dearest mother, if I grieve you I am sorry 

" Not me, not me, not me," she said. 

** For my father, I cannot help it. Had he not threatened me I should 
have told him also. As he has done so, you must tell him. But give 
him my kindest love." 

" Oh, Henry ; you will be ruined. You will, indeed. Can you not 
wait ] Eemember how headstrong your father is, and yet how good ; 
— and how he loves you ! Think of all that he has done for you. 
When did he refuse you anything % " 

" He has been good to me, but in this I cannot obey him. Ha 
should not ask me." 

" You are wrong. You are indeed. He has a right to expect that 
you will not bring disgrace upon the family." 

" Nor will I ; — except such disgrace as may attend upon poverty^ 
Good-bye, mother. I wish you could have said one kind word to me. 

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" Have I not said a kind word 1 " 

'* Not as yet, mother." 

" I would not for worlds speak unkindly to you. If it were not for 
your father I would bid you bring whom you pleased home to me as 
your wife ; and I would be as a mother to her. And if this girl should 
become your wife — " 

" It shall not be my fault if she does not." 

" I will try to love her — some day." 

Then the major went, leaving Edith at the rectory, as requested by 
his mother. His own dog-cart and his servant were at Plumstead, and 
he drove himself home to Cosby Lodge. 

When the archdeacon returned the news was told him at once. 
" Henry has gone to Allington to propose to Miss Crawley," said Mrs. 

" Gone, — ^without speaking to me ! " 

** He left his love, and said that it was useless his remaining, as he 
knew he should only offend you." 

** He has made his bed, and he must lie upon it," said the archdeacon. 
And then there was not another word said about Grace Crawley on 
that occasion. 



The ladies at the Small House at Allington breakfasted always at 
nine, — a liberal nine ; and the postman whose duty it was to deliver 
letters in that village at half-past eight, being also liberal in his ideas 
as to time, always arrived punctually in the middle of breakfast, so 
that Mrs. Dale expected her letters, and Lily hers, just before their 
second cup of tea, as though the letters formed a part of the morning 
meal. Jane, the maidservant, always brought them in, and handed 

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them to Mrs. Dale, — for Lily had in these days come to preside at 
the breakfast-table ; and then there would be an examination of the 
outsides before the envelopes were violated, and as each knew pretty 
well all the circumstances of the correspondence of the other, there 
would be some guessing as to what this or that epistle might contain ; 
and after that a reading out loud of passages, and not infrequently of the 
entire letter. But now, at the time of which I am speaking, Grace 
Crawley was at the Small House, and therefore the common practice 
was somewhat in abeyance. 

On one of the first days of the new year Jane brought in the letters 
as usual, and handed thern to Mrs. Dale. Lily was at the time 
occupied wirh the teapot, but still she saw the letters, and had not her 
hands so full as to be debarred from the expression of her usual 
anxiety. "Mamma, Tm sure I see two there for me," she said. 
" Only one for you, Lily," said Mrs. Dale. Lily instantly knew from 
the tone of the voice that some letter had come, v' h by the very 
aspect of the handwriting had disturbed her mothe^ ''There is one 
for you, my dear," said Mrs. Dale, throwing a letter across the table to 
Grace. " And one for you, Lily, from Bell. The others are for me." 
" And whom are yours from, mamma % " asked Lily. " One is from 
Mrs. Jones ; the other, I think, is a letter on business." Then Lily 
said nothing further, but she observed that her mother only opened 
one of her letters at the breakfast-table. Lily was very patient ; — not 
by nature, I think, but by exercise and practice. She had once, in 
her life, been too much in a hurry ; and having then burned herself 
grievously, she now feared the fire. She did not therefore follow her 
mother after breakfast, but sat with Grace over the fire, hemming 
diligently at certain articles of clothing which were intended for use in 
the Hogglestock parsonage. The two girls were making a set of new 
shirts for Mr. Crawley. " But I know he will ask where they come from," 
said Grace; "and then mamma will be scolded." "But I hope he'll 
wear them," said Lily. " Sooner or later he will," said Grace ; " because 
mamma manages generally to have her way at last." Then they went 
on for an hour or so, talking about the home affairs at Hogglestock. 
But during the whole time Lily's mind was intent upon her mother's 

Nothing was said about it at lunch, and nothing when they walked 
out after lunch, for Lily was very patient. But during the walk Mrs. 

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Dale became aware that her daughter was uneasy. These two watched 
each other unconsciously with a closeness which hardly allowed a glance 
of the eye, certainly not a tone of the voice, to pass unobserved. To 
Mrs. Dale it was everything in the world that her daughter should be, 
if not happy at heart, at least tranquil ; and to Lily, who knew that 
her mother was always thinking of her, and of her alone, her mother 
was the only human divinity now worthy of adoration. But nothing 
was said about the letter during the walk. 

When they came home it was nearly dusk, and it was their habit to 
sit up for a while without candles, talking, till the evening had in 
truth set in and the unmistakable and enforced idleness of remaining 
without candles was apparent. During this time, Lily, demanding 
patience of herself all the while, was thinking what she would do, or 
rather what she would say, about the letter. That nothing could be 
done or said iji the presence of Grace Crawley was a matter of course, 
nor would ^' 'd© or say anything to get rid of Grace. She would 
be very patienJ ; but she would, at last, ask her mother about the 

And then, as luck would have it, Grace Crawley got up and left the 
room. Lily stiU waited for a few minutes, and, in order that her 
patience might be thoroughly exercised, she said a word or two about 
her sister Bell ; how the eldest child's whooping-cough was nearly well, 
and how the baby was doing wonderful things with its first tooth. 
But as Mrs. Dale had already seen Bell's letter, all this was not intensely 
interesting. At last Lily came to the point and asked her question. 
"Mamma, from whom was that other letter which you got this 
morning 1 " 

Our story will perhaps be best told by communicating the letter to 
the reader before it was discussed with Lily. The letter was as 
follows : — 

" General Committee Office, — January, 186—" 

I should have said that Mrs. Dale had not opened the letter till she 
had found herself in the solitude of her own bed-room ; and that then, 
before doing so, she had examined the handwriting with anxious e^es. 
When she first received it she thought she knew the writer, but was 
not sure. Then she had glanced at the impression over the fastening, 
and had known at once from whom the letter had oome. It was from 
Mr. Crosbie, the man who had brought so much trouble into her house, 

VOL. I. P 

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who had jilted her daughter ; the only man in the world whom she 
had a right to regard as a positive enemy to herseK. She had no 
doubt about it, as she tore the envelope open; and yet, when the 
address given made her quite sure, a new feeling of shivering came 
upon her, and she asked herself whether it might not be better that 
she should send his letter back to him without reading it. But she 
read it. 

" Madam," the letter began, — 

" You will be very much surprised to hear from me, and I am 
quite aware that I am not entitled to the ordinary courtesy of an 
acknowledgment from you, should you be pleased to throw my letter 
on one side as unworthy of your notice. But I cannot refrain from 
addressing you, and must leave it to you to reply to me or not, as you 
may think fit. 

" I will only refer to that episode of my life with which you are ac- 
quainted, for the sake of acknowledging my great fault and of assuring 
you that I did not go unpunished. It would be useless for me now to 
attempt to explain to you the circumstances which led me into that 
difficulty which ended in so great a blunder ; but I will ask you to be- 
lieve that my folly was greater than my sin. 

" But I will come to my point at once. You are, no doubt, aware 
that I married a daughter of Lord De Courcy, and that I was separated 
from my wife a few weeks after our unfortunate marriage. It is now 
something over twelve months since she died at Baden-Baden in her 
mother's house. I never saw her since the day we first parted. I have 
not a word to say against her. The fault was mine in marrying a 
woman whom I did not love and had never loved. When I married 
Lady Alexandrina I loved, not her, but your daughter. 

" I believe I may venture to say to you that your daughter once 
loved me. From the day on which I last wrote to you that terrible 
letter which told you of my fate I have never mentioned the name of 
Lily Dale to human ears. . It has been too sacred for my mouth, — too 
sacred for the intercourse of any friendship with which I have been 
blessed. I now use it for the first time to you, in order that I may 
ask whether it be possible that her old love should ever live again. 
Mine has lived always, — has never faded for an hour, making m© 
miserable during the years that have passed since I saw her, but 

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capable of making me very happy, if I may be allowed to see her 

" You will understand my purpose now as well as though I were to 

Ttite pages. I have no scheme formed in my head for seeing your 

" hter again. How can I dare to form a scheme, when I am aware 

tiK chance of success must be so strong against me % But if you 

lU teFme that there can be a gleam of hope, I wiU obey any 

J^omr^nds that you can put upon me in any way that you may point 

out. I am free again, — and she is free. I love her with all my heart, 

and seem to long for nothing in the world but that she should become 

my wife. Whether any of her old love may still abide with her, you 

will know. If it do, it may even yet prompt her to forgive one who, 

in spite of falseness of conduct, has yet been true to her in heart. 

" I have the honour to be. Madam, 

" Your most obedient servant, 

"Adolphus Crosbib." 

This was the lerter which Mrs. Dale had received, and as to which 
she had not as yet said a word to Lily, or even made up her mind 
whether she would say a word or not. Dearly as the mother and 
daughter loved each other, thprough as was the confidence between 
them, yet the name of Adolphus Crosbie had not been mentioned 
between them oftener, perhaps, than half-a-dozen times since the blow 
had been struck. Mrs. Dale knew that their feelings about the man 
were altogether dilfferent. She, herself, not only condemned him for 
what he had done, believing it to be impossible that any shadow of 
excuse could be urged for his offence, thinking that the fault had 
shown the man to be mean beyond redemption ; — but she had allowed 
herself actually to hate him. He had in one sense murdered her 
daughter, and she believed that she could never forgive him. But 
Lily, as her mother well knew, had forgiven this man altogether, had 
made excuses for him which cleansed his sin of all its blackness in her 
own eyes, and was to this day anxious as ever for his welfare and his 
happiness. Mrs. Dale feared that Lily did in truth love him still. 
If it was so, was she not bound to show her this letter 1 Lily was old 
enough to judge for herself, — old enough, and wise enough too. Mrs. 
Dale told herself half-a-score of times that morning that she could not 
be justified in keeping the letter from her daughter. 

p 2 

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But yet she much wished that the letter had never been written, 
and would have given very much to be able to put it out of the way 
without injustice to Lily. To her thinking it would be impossible that 
.Lily should be happy in marrying such a man. Such a marriage no^ 
^ would be, as Mrs. Dale thought, a degradation to her daughte . c.iat 
.terrible injury had been done to her ; but such reparation as th put she 
an Mrs. Dale's eyes, only make the injury deeper. And ye' ^ 
the man ; and, loving him, how could she resist the temp ^^^^ ^ 
offer? "Mamma, from whom was that letter which y^, ^w this 
.morning?" Lily asked. For a few moments Mrs. Dale remained silent. 
/* Mamma," continued Lily, " I think I know whom it was fro i. If 
you tell me to ask nothing further, of course I will not." 

" No, Lily ; I cannot tell you that." 

" Then, mamma, out with it at once. What is the use of shivering 
on the brink ? " ^ 

" It was from Mr. Crosbie." 

" I knew it. I cannot tell you why, but I knew it. And now, 
mamma, — am I to read it ? " 

" You shall do as you please, Lily." 

"Then I please to read it." 

" Listen to me a moment first. For myself, I wish that the letter 
had never been written. It tells badly for the man as I think of it. 
I cannot imderstand how any. man could have brought himself to 
address either you or me, after having acted as he acted." 

" But, mamma, we differ about all that, you know." 

" Now he has written, and there is the letter, — ^if you choose to read 

Lily had it in her hand, but she still sat motionless, holding it. 
" You think, mamma, I ought not to read it 1 " 

" You must judge for yourself, dearest." 

" And if I do not read it, what shall you do, mamma 1 " 

** I shall do nothing ; — or, perhaps, I should in such a case acknow- 
ledge it, and toll him that we have nothing more to say to him." 

" That would be very stern." ^ 

" He has done that which makes sternness necessary." 

Then Lily was again silent, and still she sat motionless, with the 
letter in her hand. " Mamma," she said, at last, " if you tell me not 

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to read it I will give it ydu back unread. If you bid me exercise my 
own judgment, I shall take it upstairs and read it." 

" You must exercise your, own judgment," said Mrs. Dale. Then 
Lily got up from her chair and walked slowly out of the room, and 
went to her mother's chamber. The thoughts which passed through 
^» -iPale's mind while her daughter was reading the letter were very 
; ,, Qpuld find no comfort anywhere. Lily, she told herself, 

•*. \ give way to this man's renewed expressions of affection, 

ana &. ;,*6. Dale herself, would be called upon to give her child to a 
man ^ £om she could neither love nor respect ; — whom, for aught she 
kne\^, %he could never cease to hate. And she could not bring herself 
to b«Heve that Lily would be happy with such a man. As for her own 
life, desolate as it would be, — she cared little for that. Mothers know 
that their daughters will leave them. Even widowed mothers, mothers 
•with but one child left, — such a one as was this mother, — are aware 
that they will be left alone, and they can bring themselves to welcome 
■ the sacrifice of themselves with something of satisfaction. Mrs. Dale 
and Lily had, indeed, of late become bound together especially, so that 
the mother had been justified in regarding the link which joined them 
as being firmer than that by which most daughters are bound to their 
mothers ; — but in all that she would have found no regret. Even 
now, in these very days, she was hoping that Lily might yet be brought 
to give herself to John Eames. But she could not, after all that was 
come and gone, be happy in thinking that Lily should be given to 
Adolphus Crosbie. 

When Mrs. Dale went upstairs to her own room before dinner Lily 
was not there ; nor were they alone together again that evening except 
for a moment, when Lily, as was usual, went into her mother's room 
when she was undressing. But neither of them then said a word about 
the letter. Lily during dinner and throughout the evening had borne 
herself well, givAg no sign of special emotion, keeping to herself 
entirely her own thoughts about the proposition made to her. And 
afterwards she had progressed diligently with the fabrication of Mr. 
Crawley's shirts, as though she had no such letter in her pocket. 
And yet there was not a moment in which she was not thinking of it. 
To Grace, just before she went to bed, she did say one word. " I 
wonder whether it can ever come to a person to be so placed that there 

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can be no doing right, let what will be done ; — that, do or not do, as 
you may, it must be wrong 1 " 

" I hope you are not in such a condition,** said Grace. 

" I am something near it," said Lily ; " but perhaps if I look long 
enough I shall see the light." 

** I hope it will be a happy light at last," said Grace, who thought 
that Lily was referring only to John Eames. 

At noon on the next day Lily had still said nothing to her . other 
about the letter ; and then what she said was very little. " n^^®^ 
must you answer Mr. Crosbie, mamma ] " . 

"When, my dear 1" J^ 

" I mean how long may you takel It need not be to-day % ^,,j{^ 

" No ; — certainly not to-day." 

"Then I will talk over it with you to-morrow. It wa' a me 
thinking ; — does it not, mamma % " 

" It would not want much with me, Lily." 

" But then, mamma, you are not I. Believing as I believe, feeling 
as I feel, it wants some thinking. That's what I mean." 

" I wish I could help you, my dear." 

" You shall help me, — to-morrow." The morrow came and Lily was 
still very patient ; but she had prepared herself, and had prepared the 
time also, so that in the hour of the gloaming she was alone with her 
mother, and sure that she might remain alone with her for an hour or 
so. " Mamma, sit there," she said : " I will sit down here, and then 
I can lean against you and be comfortable. You can bear as much of 
me as that, — can't you, mamma 1 " Then Mrs. Dale put her arm over 
Lily's shoulder, and embraced her daughter. ^ And now, mamma, we 
will talk about this wonderful letter." 

" I do not know, dear, that I have anything to say about it." 

" But you must have something to say about it, mamma. You must 
bring yourself to have something to say,— to have a great deal to say." 

" You know what I think as well as though I talked for a week." 

" That won't do, mamma. Come, you must not be hard with 

" Hard, Lily ! " 

" I don't mean that you will hurt me, or not give me any food, — or 
that you will not go on caring about me more than anything else in the 
whole world ten times over " And Lily as she spoke tightened 

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the embrace of her mother's arm round her neck. " I'm not afraid 
you'll be hard in that way. But you must soften your heart so as to 
ha able to mention his name and talk about him, and tell me what I 
ought to do. You must see with my eyes, and hear with my ears, and 
feel with my heart ; — ^and then, when I know that you have done that, 
I must judge with your judgment" 

" I wish you to use your own." 

" Yes ; — because you won't see with my eyes and hear with my ears. 
That's what I call being hard. Though you should feed me with blood 
from your breast, I should call you a hard pelican, unless you could 
give me also the sympathy which I demand from you. You see, 
mamma, we have never allowed ourselves to speak of this man." 

« ^^s*xi need has there been, dearest ? " 

m ^because we have been thinking of him. Out of the full heart 
the mouth speaketh ; — that is, the mouth does so when the full heart 
is allowed to have its own way comfortably." 

" There are things which should be forgotten." 

" Forgotten, mamma ! " 

" The memory of which should not be fostered by much talking." 

" I have never blamed you, mamma ; never, even in my heart. I 
have known how good and gracious and sweet you have been. But I 
have often accused myself of cowardice because I have not allowed his 
name to cross my lips either to you or to Bell. To talk of forgetting 
such an accident as that is a farce. And as for fostering the memory 

of it \ Do you think that I have ever spent a night from that 

tune to this without thinking of him ? Do you imagine that I have 
ever crossed our own lawn, or gone down through the garden-path there, 
without thinking of the times when he and I walked there together 1 
There needs no fostering for such memories as those. They are weeds 
which will grow rank and strong though nothing be done to foster 
them. There is the earth and the rain, and that is enough for them. 
You cannot kill them if you would, and they certainly will not die 
because y6u are careful not to hoe and rake the ground. 

**Lily, you forget how short the time has been as yet." 

" I have thought it very long; but the truth is, mamma, that this 
non-fostering of memories, as you call it, has not been the real cause of 
our silence. We have not spoken of Mr. Crosbie because we have not 
thought alike about him. Had you spoken you would have spoken 

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with anger, and I could not endure to hear him abused. That has 
been it.** 

" Partly so, Lily." 

" Now you must talk of him, and you must not abuse him. We 
must talk of him, because something must be done about his letter. 
Even if it be left unanswered it cannot be so left without discussion. 
And yet you must say no evil of him.** 

" Am I to think that he behaved welir* 

" No, mamma ; you are not to think that; but you are to look upon 
his fault as a fault that has been forgiven.** 

" It cannot be forgotten, dear.** 

" But, mamma, when you go to heaven ^** 

** My dear ! ** 

" But you will go to heaven, mamma, and why should I not speak 
of ifJ You will go to heaven, and yet I suppose you have been 
wicked, because we are all very wicked. But you won*t be told of 
your wickedness there. You won't be hated there, because you were 
this or that when you were here.*' 

" I hope not, Lily ; but isn*t your argument almost profane 1 ** 

" No ; I don*t think so. We ask to be forgiven just as we forgive. 
That is the way in which we hope to be forgiven, and therefore it is 
the way in which we ought to forgive. When you say that prayer at 
night, mamma, do you ever ask yourself whether you have forgiven 

" I forgive him as far as humanity can forgive. I would do him no 

" But if you and I are forgiven only after that fashion we shall never 
get to heaven.** Lily paused for some further answer from her mother, 
but as Mrs. Dale was silent she allowed that portion of the subject to 
pass as completed. " And now, mamma, what answer do you think 
we ought to send to his letter 1 ** 

" My dear, how am I to say % You know I have said already that 
if I could act on my own judgment I would send none.** 

*' But that was said in the bitterness of gall.** 

" Come, Lily, say what you think yourself. We shall get on better 
when you have brought yourself to speak. Do you think that you 
wish to see him again?** 

" I don*t know, mamma. Upon the whole, I think not.** 

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" Then in heaven's name let me write and tell him so." 

"Stop a moment, mamma. There are two persons here to be 
considered, — or rather three." 

" I would not have you think of me in such a question." 

" I know you would not ; but never mind, and let me go on. The 
three of us are concerned, at any rate ; you, and he, and I. I am 
thinking of him now. We have all suffered, but I do believe that 
hitherto be has had the worst of it." 

" And who has deserved the worst] " 

" Mamma, how can you go back in that way 1 We have agreed that 
that should be regarded as done and gone. He has been very unhappy, 
and now we see what remedy he proposes to himself for his misery. 
Do I flatter myself if I allow myself to look at it in that way." 

" Perhaps he thinks he is offering a remedy for your misery." 

As this was said Lily turned round slowly and looked up into her 
mother's face. " Mamma," she said, " that is very cruel. I did not 
think you could be so crueL How can you, who believe him to bo so 
selfish, think that 1" 

" It is very hard to judge of men's motives. I have never supposed 
him to be so black that he would not wish to make atonement for the 
evil he has done.'* 

" If I thought that, there certainly could be but one answer." 

" Who can look into a man's heart and judge all the sources of his 
actions % There are mixed feelings there, no doubt. Remorse for what 
he has done ; regret for what he has lost ; — something, perhaps, of the 
purity of love." 

" Yes, something, — I hope somethmg, — for his sake." 

" But when a horse kicks and bites, you know his nature and do not 
go near him. When a man has cheated you once, you think he will 
cheat you again, and you do not deal with him. You do not look to 
gather gi-apes from thistles, after you have found that they are 

" I still go for the roses though I have often torn my hand with thorns 
in looking for them." 

" But you do not pluck those that have become cankered in the 

" Because he was once at fault, will he be cankered always 1 " 

" I would not trust him." 

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" Now, mamma, see how different we are ; or, rather, how different 
it is when one judges for oneself or for another. If it we^e simply 
myself, and my own future fate in life, I would trust him with it all 
to-morrow without a word. I should go to him as a gambler goes to 
the gambling-table, knowing that if I lost everything I could hardly be 
poorer than I was before. But I should have a better -hope than the 
gambler is justified in having. That, however, is not my difi&culty. 
And when I think of him I can see a prospect of success for the 
gambler. I think so weU of myself that, loving him, as I do ; — yes, 
mamma, do not be uneasy ; loving him, as I do, I believe I could "be a 
comfort to him. I think that he might be better with nie than without 
me. That is, he would be so, if he^.jould teach himself to look back 
upon the past as I can do, and t'^ ju< ^f\ot me as I can judge of him." 
> "He has nothing, at least, foi w^ ^ ,p condemn you." 

"But he would have were I to^o Tj^him now. He would con- 
demn me because I had forgiven hin Jlq would condemn me because 
I had borne what he had done to me, and had still loved him, — loved 
him through it alL He would feel and know the weakness. And there 
is weakness ! I have been weak in not being able to rid myself of him 
altogether. He would recognize this after awhile, and would despise 
me for it. But he would not see what there is of devotion to him in 
my being able to bear the taunts of the world in going back to him, — 
and your taunts, and my own taunts. I should have to bear his also, — 
not spoken aloud, but to be seen in his face and heard in his voice, — 
and that I could not endure. If he despised me, and he would, that 
would make us both unhappy. Therefore, mamma, tell him not to 
come ; tell him that he can never come ; but, if it be possible, tell him 
this tenderly." Then she got up and walked away, as though she were 
going out of the room ; but her mother had caught her before the door 
was open. 

" Lily," she said, " if you think you can be happy with him, he shall 

" Ko, mamma, no. I have been looking for the light ever since I 
read his letter, and I think I see it. And now, mamma, I will make 
a clean breast of it. From the moment in which I heard that that poor 
woman was dead, I have been fluttered. It has been weak of me, and 
silly, and contemptible. But I could not help it. I kept on asking 
myself whether he would ever think of me now. Well; he tas 

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answered the question ; and has so done it that he has forced upon 
me the necessity of a resolution. I have resolved, and I believe that 
I shall be the better for it." 

The letter which Mra. Dale wrote to Mr.- Crosbie was as follows : — 

"Mrs. Dale presents her compliments to Mr. Crosbie, and begs to 
assure him that it will not now be possible that he should renew the 
relations which were broken off, three years ago, between him and Mrs. 
Dale's family." 

It was very short, certa""^ _% and it did not by any means satisfy 
Mrs. Dale. But she did not' ^ iw how to say more without saying too 
much. The object of her le * ^ ^^ to save him the trouble of a futile 
perseverance, and them fror ^ an '^ance of persecution; and this 
she wizihed to do without r i^ ^ n^ '* her ^daughter's name. And she 
was determined that no W( d '^ h ulu escape her in which there was 
any touch of severity, any hi... a^ an accusation. So much she owed 
- to Lily in return for all that Lil *■ was prepared to abandon. " There 
is my note," she said at last, offering it to her daughter. " I did not 
mean to see it," said Lily ; ** and, mamma, I will not read it now. 
Let it go. I know you have been good and have not scolded him." 
" I have not scolded him certainly," said Mrs. Dale. And then the 
letter was sent. 



Mr. John Eames, of the Income-tax Office, had in these days risen so 
high in the world that people in the west end of town, and very 
respectable people too, — people living in South Kensington, in neigh- 
bourhoods not far from Belgravia, and in very handsome houses 

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round Bayswater, — were glad to ask him out to dinner. Money bad 
been left to him by an earl, and rumour had of course magnified that 
money. He was a private secretary, which is in, itself a great advance 
on being a mere clerk. And he had become tlj^ particularly intimate 
friend of an artist who had pushed himself into high fashion during 
the last year or two, — one Conway Dalrymple, whom the rich English 
world was beginning to pet and pelt with gilt sugar-plums, and who 
seemed to take very kindly to petting and gilt sugar-plums. I don't 
know whether the friendship of Conway Dalrymple had not done as 
much to secure John Eames his position at^+]ie Bayswater dinner-tables, 
as had either the private secretaryship, be the earl's money ; and yet, 
when they had first known each other, j^ddr only two or three years ago, 
Conway Dalrymple had been the pf^v^ man of the two. Some 
chance had brought them together, anil they had lived in the same 
rooms for nearly two years. This arraingement had been broken up, 
and the Conway Dalrymple of these days had a studio of his own, 
somewhere near Kensington Palace, where he painted portraits of 
young countesses, and in which he hid even painted a young duchess. 
It was the pecuHar merit of his pictures, — so at least said the art- 
loving world, — that, though the likeness was always good, the stiffness 
of the modern portrait was never there. There was also ever some 
story told in Dalrymple's pictures over and above the story of the 
portraiture. This countess was drawn as a fairy with wings, that 
countess as a goddess with a helmet. The thing took for a time, 
and Conway Dalrymple was picking up his gilt sugar-plums with, 
considerable rapidity. 

On a certain day he and John Eames were to dine out together at 
a certain house in that Bayswater district. It was a large mansion, if 
not made of stone yet looking very stony, with thirty windows at 
least, all of them with cut stone frames, requiring, let me say, at least 
four thousand a year for its maintenance. And its owner, Dobbs 
Broughton, a man very well known both in the City and over the 
grass in Northamptonshire, was supposed to have a good deal more 
than four thousand a year. Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, a very beautiful 
woman, who certainly was not yet thirty-five, let her worst enemies say 
what they might, had been painted by Conway Dalrymple as a Grace. 
There were, of course, three Graces in the picture, but each Grace was 
Mrs. Dobbs Broughton repeated. We all know how Graces stand 

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sometimes ; two Graces looking one way, and one the other. In this 
picture, Mrs. Dobbs Broughton as centre Grace looked you full in the 
face. The same lady looked away from you, displaying l^er left 
shoulder as one side Grace, and displaying her right shoulder as the 
other side Grace. For this pretty toy Mr. Conway Dalrymple had 
picked up a gilt sugar-plum to the tune of six hundred pounds, and 
had, moreover, won the heart both of Mr. and Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. 
" Upon my word, Johnny," Dalrymple had said to his friend, " he's a 
deuced good fellow, has really a good glass of claret, — which is getting 
rarer and rarer every day, — and will mount you for a day, whenever 
you please, down at Market Harboro*. Come and dine with them." 
Johnny Eames condescended, and did go and dine with Mr. Dobbs 
Broughton. I wonder whether he remembered, when Conway Dalrymple 
was talking of the rarity of good claret, how much beer the young 
painter used to drink when they were out together in the country, as 
they used to be occasionally, three years ago ; and how the painter had 
then been used to complain that bitter beer cost threepence a glass, 
instead of twopence, which had hitherto been the recognized price of 
the article. In those days the sugar-plums had not been gilt, and had 
been much rarer. 

Johnny Eames and his friend went together to the house of Mr. 
Dobbs Broughton. As Dalrymple lived close to the Broughtons, 
Eames picked him up in a cab. " Filthy things, these cabs are," said 
Dalrymple, as he got into the Hansom. 

" I don't know about that," said Johnny. ** They're pretty good, I 

" Foul things," said Conway. " Don't you feel what a draught 
comes in here because the glass is cracked ] I'd have one of my own, 
only I should never know what to do with it." 

" The greatest nuisance on earth, I should think," said Johnny. 

" If you could always have it standing ready round the corner," said 
the artist, " it would be dehghtful. But one would want half a dozen 
horses and two or three men for that." 

" I think the stands are the best," said Johnny. 

They were a little late, — a little later than they should have been 
had they considered that Eames was to be introduced to his new 
acquaintances. But he had abeady lived long enough before the world 
to be quite at his ease in such circumstances, and he entered Mrs. 

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Broughton's drawing-room with his pleasantest smile upon his face. 
But as he entered he saw a sight which made him look serious in spite 
of his efforts to the contrary. Mr. Adolphus Crosbie, secretary to the 
Board at the General Committee Office, was standing on the rug before 
the fire. 

" Who will be there 1 " Eames had asked of his friend, when the 
suggestion to go and dine with Dobbs Broughton had been made to 

** Impossible to say," Conway had replied. "A certain horrible 
fellow of the name of Musselboro, will almost certainly be there. He 
always is when they have anything of a swell dinner-party. He is a 
sort of partner of Broughton's in the City. He wears a lot of chains, 
and has elaborate whiskers, and an elaborate waistcoat, which is worse; 
and he doesn't wash his hands as often as he ought to do." 

" An objectionable party, rather, I should say," said Eames. 

" Well, yes ; Musselboro is objectionable. He's very good-humoured 
you know, and good-looking in a sort of way, and goes everywhere ; 
that is, among people of this sort. Of course he's not hand-and-glove 
with Lord Derby ; and I wish he could be made to wash his hands. 
They haven't any other standing dish, and you may meet anybody. 
They always have a Member of Parliament; they generally manage 
to catch a Baronet ; and I have met a Peer there. On that august 
occasion Musselboro was absent." 

So instructed, Eames, on entering the room, looked round at once 
for Mr. Musselboro. " If I don't see the whiskers and chain," he 
liad said, " I shall know there's a Peer." Mr. Musselboro was in the 
room, but Eames had descried Mr. Crosbie long before he had seen Mr. 

There was no reason for confusion on his part in meeting Crosbie. 
They had both loved Lily Dale. Crosbie might have been successful, 
but for his own fault. Eames had on one occasion been thrown into 
contact with him, and on that occasion had quarrelled with him and 
had beaten him, giving him a black eye, and in this way obtaining 
some mastery over him. There was no reason why he should be 
ashamed of meeting Crosbie ; and yet when he saw him, the blood 
mounjted all over his face, and he forgot to make any further search for 
Mr. Musselboro. 

" I am so much obliged to Mr. Dalrymple for bringing you," said 

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Mrs. Dobbs Broughton very sweetly, " only he ought to have come 
sooner. Naughty man ! I know it was his fault. Will you take Miss 
Demolines down 1 Miss Demolines, — Mr. Eames." 

Mr. Dobbs Broughton was somewhat sulky and had not welcomed 
our hero very cordially. He was beginning to think that Conway 
Dalrymple gave himself airs, and did not sufficiently understand that a 
man who had horses at Market Harboro* and *41 Lafitte was at any 
late as good as a painter who was pelted with gilt sugar-plums for 
painting countesses. But he was a man whose ill-humour never lasted 
long, and he was soon pressing his wine on Johnny Eames as though 
he loved him dearly. 

But there was yet a few minutes before they went down to dinner, 
and Johnny Eames, as he endeavoured to find something to say to 
Miss Demolines, — which was difficult, as he did not in the least know 
Miss Demolines' line of conversation, — was aware that his efforts were 
impeded by thoughts of Mr. Crosbie. The man looked older than 
when he had last seen him, — so much older that Eames was astonished. 
He was bald, or becoming bald ; and his whiskers were grey, or were 
becoming grey, and he was much fatter. Johnny Eames, who was 
always thinking of Lily Dale, could not now keep himself from think- 
ing of Adolphus Crosbie. He saw at a glance that the man was in 
mourning, though there was nothing but his shirt-studs by which to 
tell it ; and he knew that he was in mourning for his wife. " I wish 
she might have lived for ever," Johnny said to himself. 

He had not yet been definitely called upon by the entrance of the 
servant to offer his arm to Miss Demolines, when Crosbie walked across 
to him from the rug and addressed him. 

" Mr. Eames," said he, " it is some time since we met." And he 
offered his hand to Johnny. 

^* Yes, it is," said Johnny, accepting the proffered salutation. " I 
don't know exactly how long, but ever so long." 

" I am very glad to have the opportunity of shaking hands with 
you," said Crosbie ; and then he tetired, as it had become his duty to 
wait with his arm ready for Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. Having married 
an earl's daughter he was selected for that honour. There was a 
barrister in the room, and Mrs. Dobbs Broughton ought to have known 
better. As she professed to be guided in such matters by the rules laid 
down by the recognized authorities, she ought to have been aware that 

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a man takes no rank from his wife. But she was entitled I think to 
merciful consideration for her error. A woman situated as was Mi*s. 
Dobbs Broughton cannot altogether ignore these terrible rules. She 
cannot let her guests draw lots for precedence. She must select some 
one for the honour of her own arm. And amidst the intricacies of 
rank how is it possible for a woman to learn and to remember every- 
thing ? If Providence would only send Mrs. Dobbs Broughton a Peer 
for every dinner-party, the thing would go more easily; but what 
woman will tell me, off-hand, which should go out of a room first, a 
C.B., an Admiral of the Blue, the Dean of B§irchester, or the Dean of 
Arches ? Who is to know who was everybody's father ? How am I to 
remember that young Thompson's progenitor was made a baronet and 
not a knight when he was Lord Mayor 1 Perhaps Mrs. Dobbs 
Broughton ought to have known that Mr. Crosbie could have gained 
nothing by his wife's rank, and the barrister may be considered to have 
been not immoderately severe when he simply spoke of her afterwards 
as the siUiest and most ignorant old woman he had ever met in his 
life. Eames with the lovely Miss Demolines on his arm was the last 
to move before the hostess. Mr. Dobbs Broughton had led the way 
energetically with old Lady Demolines. There was no doubt about 
Lady Demolines, — as his wife had told him, because her title marked 
her. Her husband had been a physician in Paris, and had been 
knighted in consequence of some benefit supposed to have been done 
to some French scion of royalty, — when such scions in France were 
royal and not imperial. Lady Demolines' rank was not much, 
certainly ; but it served to mark her, and was beneficial. 

As he went downstairs Eames was still thinking of his meeting with 
Crosbie, and had as yet hardly said a word to his neighbour, and his 
neighbour had not said a word to him. Kow Johnny understood 
dinners quite well enough to know that in a party of twelve, among 
whom six are ladies, everything depends on your next neighbour, and 
generally on the next neighbour who specially belongs to you ; and as 
he took his seat he was a little alarmed as to his prospect for the next 
two hours. On his other hand sat Mrs. Ponsonby, the barrister's wife, 
and he did not much like the look of Mrs. Ponsonby. She was fat, 
heavy, and good-looking ; with a broad space between her eyes, and 
light smooth hair ; — ^a youthful British matron every inch of her, of 
whom any barrister with a young family of children might be proud. 

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Now Miss Demolines, though she was hardly to be called beautiful, 
was at any rate remarkable. She had large, dark, well-shaped eyes, 
and very dark hair, which she wore tangled about in an extraordinary 
manner, and she had an expressive face, — a face made expressive by 
the owner^s will. Such power of expression is often attained by dint 
of labour, — ^though it never reaches to the expression of anything in 
particular. She was almost sufficiently good-looking to be justified in 
considering herself to be a beauty. 

But Miss Demolines, though she had said nothing as yet, knew her 
game very well. A lady cannot begin conversation to any good 
purpose in the drawing-room, when she is seated and the man is standing; 
— nor can she know then how the table may subsequently arrange 
itself. Powder may be wasted, and often is wasted, and the spirit 
rebels against the necessity of commencing a second enterprise. But 
Miss Demolines, when she found herself seated, and perceived that on 
the other side of her was Mr. Ponsonby, a married man, commenced 
her enterprise at once, and our friend John Eames was immediately 
aware that he would have no difficulty as to conversation. 

"Don't you like winter dinner-parties]" began Miss Demolines. 
This was said just as Johnny was taking his seat, and he had time to 
declare that he liked dinner-parties at all periods of the year if the 
dinner was good and the people pleasant before the host had muttered 
something which was intended to be understood to be a grace. " But 
I mean especially in winter," continued Miss Demolines. " I don't 
think daylight should ever be admitted at a dinner-table ; and though 
you may shut out the daylight, you can't shut out the heat. And then 
there are always so many other things to go to in May and June and 
July. Dinners should be stopped by Act of Parliament for those three 
months. I don't care what people do afterwards, because we always 
fly away on the first of August." 

'* That is good-natured on your part." 

" Fm sure what I say would be for the good of society ; — ^but at this 
time of the year a dinner is warm and comfortable." 

" Very comfortable, I think." 

" And people get to know each other ; " — in saying which Miss 
Demolines looked very pleasantly up into Johnny's face. 

" There is a great deal in that," said he. " I wonder whether you 
and I will get to know each other ? " 

VOL. I. Q 

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" Of course we shall ; — that is, if I'm worth knowing." 

" There can be no doubt about that, I should say." 

'' Time alone can telL But, Mr. Eames, I see that Mr. Crosbie is a 
Mend of yours." 

'' Hardly a friend." 

" I know very well that men are friends when they step up and 
shake hands with each other. It is the same as when women kiss." 

^* When I see women kiss, I always think that there is deep hatred 
at the bottom of it." 

" And there may be deep hatred between you and Mr. Crosbie fOT 
anything I know to the contrary," said Miss Demolines. 

" The very deepest," said Johnny, pretending to look grave. 

" Ah, then I know he is your bosom friend, and that you will teU 
him anything I say. What a strange history that was of his marriage ! " 

" So I have heard ; — ^but' he is not quite bosom friend enough with 
me to have told me all the particulars. I know that his wife is dead." 

" Dead ; oh, yes ; she has been dead these two years I should say." 

*' Not so long as that, I should think." 

" Well, — perhaps not. But it's ever so long ago ; — quite long 
enough for him to be married^^^gain. Did you know her % " 

" I never saw her in my life." 

" I knew her, — not well indeed ; but I am intimate with hwr sister, 
Lady Amelia Gazebee, and I have met her there. Xone of that family 
have married what you may call well. And now, Mr. Eames, pray 
look at the menu and tell me what I am to eat. Arrange for me a little 
dinner of my own, out of the great bill of fare provided, I always 
expect some gentleman to do that forme. Mr. Crosbie, you know, 
only lived with his wife for one month." 

" So Tve been told" 

" And a terrible month they had of it. I used to hear of it. He 
doesn't look that sort of man, does he ? " 

" Well ;— no. I don't think he does. But what sort of man do 
you mean % " 

" Why, such a regular Bluebeard ! Of course you know how he 
treated another girl before he married Lady Alexandrina. She died of 
it, — with a broken heart ; absolutely died ; and there he is, iudifferent 
as possible ; — and would treat me in the same way to-monrow if I 
would let him." 

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Johnny Eames, finding it impossible to talk to Miss Demolines about 
Lily Dale, took up the card of the dinner and went to work in earnest, 
recommending his neighbour what to eat and what to pass by. " But 
you've skipped the pdt6^^ she said, with energy. 

" Allow me to ask you to choose mine for me instead. You are 
much more fit to do it." And she did choose his dinner for him. 

They were sitting at a round table, and in order that the ladies and 
gentlemen should alternate themselves properly, Mr. Musselboro was 
opposite to the host. Next to him on his right was old Mrs. Van 
Siever, the widow of a Dutch merchant, who was very rich. She was 
a ghastly thing to look at, as well from the quantity ad from the nature 
of the wiggeries which she wore. She had not only a false front, but 
long false curls, as to which it cannot be conceived that she would 
suppose that any one would be ignorant as to their falseness. She 
was very thin, too, and very small, and putting aside her wiggeries, 
you would think her to be all eyes. She was a ghastly old woman to 
the sight, and not altogether pleasant in her mode of talking. She 
seemed to know Mr. Musselboro very weU, for she called him by his 
name without any prefix, ' He had, iB4e©d, begun life as a clerk in 
her husband's office. :' v- 

" Why doesn't What's-his-name have reJal silver forks % " she said to 
him. Now Mrs. What's-his-name, — Mrs. Dobbs Broughton we will 
call her — ^was sitting on the other side of Mr. Musselboro, between him 
and Mr. Crosbie ; and, so placed, Mr. Musselboro found it rather hard 
to answer the question, more especially as he was probably aware that 
other questions would follow. 

" What's the use ? " said Mr. Musselboro. " Everybody has these 
plated things now. What's the use of a lot of capital lying dead? " 

"Everybody doesn't I don't. You know as well as I do, 
Musselboro, that the appearance of the thing goes for a great deal. 
Capital isn't lying dead as long as people know that you've got 

Before answering this Mr. Musselboro was driven to reflect that 
Mrs. Dobbs Broughton would probably hear his reply. " You won't 
find that there is any doubt on that head in the City as to Broughton," 
he said. 

" I shan't ask in the City, and if I did, I should not believe what 
people told me. I think there are sillier folks in the City than any- 


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where else. What did he give for that picture upstairs which the 
young man painted ] " 

"What, Mrs. Dobbs Broughton's portrait?" 

" You don't call that a portrait, do you 1 I mean the one with the 
three naked women % " Mr. Musselboro glanced round with one eye, 
and felt sure that Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had heard the question. But 
the old woman was determined to have an answer. " How much did 
he give for it, Musselboro ] " 

"Six hundred pounds, I believe," said Mr. Musselboro, looking 
straight before him as he answered, and pretending to treat the subject 
with perfect indifference. 

" Did he indeed, now ] Six hundred pounds ! And yet he hasn't 
got silver spoons. How things are changed 1 Tell me, Musselboro, 
who was that young man who came in with the painter 1 " 

Mr. Musselboro turned round and asked Mrs. Broughton. " A Mr. 
John Eames, Mrs. Van Siever,"said Mrs. Broughton, whispering across 
the front of Mr. Musselboro. ^* He is private secretary to Lord — Lord — 
Lord — I forget who. Some one of the Ministers, I know. And he 
had a great fortune left him the other day by Lord — Lord — ^Lord — 
somebody else." 

" All among the lords, I see," said Mrs. Van Siever. Then Mrs. 
Dobbs Broughton drew herself back, remembering some little attack 
which had been made on her by Mrs. Van Siever when she herself had 
had the real lord to dine with her. 

There was a Miss Van Siever there also, sitting between Crosbie 
and Conwaiy Dalrymple. Conway Dalrymple had been specially 
brought there to sit next to Miss Van Siever. " There's no knowing 
how much she'll have," said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, in the warmth of 
her friendship. "But it's all real. It is, indeed. The mother is 
awfully rich." 

" But she's awful in another way, too," said Dalrymple. 

"Indeed she is, Conway." J^Irs. Dobbs Broughton had got into a 
way of calling her young friend by his Christian name. "All the 
world calls him Conway," she had said to her husband once when her 
husband caught her doing so. " She is awful. Her husband made 
the business in the City, when things were very different from what 
they are now, and I can't help having her. She has transactions of 
business with Dobbs. But there's no mistake about the money. 

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" She needn't leave it to her dangbter, I suppose T' 

" But why shouldn't she % She has nobody else. You might offer 
to paint her, you know. She'd make an excellent picture. So much 
character. You come and see her." 

Conway Dalrymple had expressed his willingness to meet Miss Van 
Siever, saying something, however, as to his present position being one 
which did not admit of any matrimonial speculation. Then Mrs. Dobbs 
Broughton had told him, with much seriousness, that he was altogether 
wrong, and that were he to foiget himself, or commit himself, or 
misbehave himself, there must be an end to their pleasant intimacy. 
In answer to which, Mr. Dalrymple had said that her Grace was surely 
of all Graces the least gracious. And now he had come to meet Miss 
Van Siever, and was seated next to her at table. 
• Miss Van Siever, who at this time had perhaps reached her twenty- 
fifth year, was certainly a handsome young woman. She was fair and 
large,^ bearing no likeness whatever to her mother. Her features were 
regular, and her full, clear eyes had a brilliance of their own, looking 
at you always steadfastly and boldly, though very seldom pleasantly. 
Her mouth would have been beautiful had it not been too strong for 
feminine beauty. Her teeth were perfect, — too perfect, — ^looking like 
miniature walls of carved ivory. She knew the fault of this perfection, 
and showed her teeth as little as she could. Her nose and chin were 
finely chiselled, and her head stood well upon her shoulders. But 
there was something hard about it all which repelled you. Dalrymple, 
when he saw her, recoiled from her, not outwardly, but inwardly. Yes, 
she was handsome, as may be a horse or a tiger ; but there was about 
her nothing of feminine softness. He could not bring himself to think 
of taking Clara Van Siever as the model that was to sit before him for 
the rest of his life. He certainly could make a picture of her, as had 
been suggested by his friend, Mrs. Broughton, but it must be as Judith 
with the dissevered head, or as Jael using her hammer over the temple 
of Sisera. Yes, — ^he thought she would do as Jael ; and if Mrs. Van 
Siever would throw him a sugar-plum, for he would want the sugar- 
plum, seeing that any other result was out of the question, — the thing 
might be done. Such was the idea of Mr. Conway Dalrymple respecting 
Miss Van Siever, — before he led her down to dinner. 

At first he found it hard to talk to her. She answered him, and not 
with monosyllables. But she answered him without sympathy, or 

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apparent pleasure in talking. Kow the young artist was in the habit 
of being flattered by ladies, and expected to have his small talk made 
very easy for him. He liked to give himself little airs, and was not 
generally disposed to labour very hard at the task of making himself 

" Were you ever painted yet ? '' he asked her after they had both been 
sitting silent for two or three minutes. 

" Was I ever — ever painted ] In what way ? " 

'* I don't mean rouged, or enamelled, or got up by Madame Eachel ; 
but have yon ever had your portrait taken % " 

" I have been photographed,— of course." 

" That's why I asked you if you had been painted, — so as to make 
some little distinction between the two. I am a painter by profession, 
and do portraits." 

" So Mrs. Broughton told me.'' 

" I am not asking for a job, you know." 

" I am quite sure of that." 

" But I should have thought you would have been sure to have sat 
to somebody." 

" I never did. I never thought of doing so. One does those things 
at the instigation of one's intimate friends, — fathers, mothers, uncles, 
and aunts, and the like." 

'* Or husbands, perhaps, — or lovers 1" 

" Well, yes ; my intimate friend is my mother, and she would never 
dream of such a thing. She hates pictures." 

" Hates pictures ! " 

" And especially portraits. And I'm afraid, Mr. Dalrymple, she hates 

" Grood heavens ; how cruel I I suppose there is some story attached 
to it. There has been some fatal likeness, — some terrible picture, — 
something in her early days ] " 

" Nothing of the kind, Mr. Dalrymple. It is merely the fact that 
her sympathies are with ugly things, rather than with pretty things. 
I think she loves the mahogany dinner-table better than anything else 
in the house ; and she likes to have everything dark, and plain, and 


•* Good of its kind, certainly." 

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"If everybody was like your mother how would the artists livel" 

"There would be none." 

" And the world, you think, would be none the poorer 1 " 

" I did not speak of myself. I think the world would be very much 
the poorer. I am very fond of the ancient masters, though I do not 
suppose that I understand them." 

" They are easier understood than the modem I can tell you. Perhaps 
you don't care for modern pictures 1 " 

" IN'ot in comparison, certainly. If that is uncivO, you have brought 
it on yourself. But I do not in truth mean anything derogatory to the 
painters of the day. When their pictures are old, they, — that is, the 
good ones among them, — wiU be nice also." 

** Pictures are like wine, and want age, you think." 

" Yes, and statues too, and buildings above all things. The colours 
of new paintings are so glaring, and the faces are so bright and self- 
conscious, that they look to me when I go to the exhibition like 
coloured prints in a child's new picture-book. It is the same thing with 
buildings. One sees all the points, and nothing is left to the imagin- 

** I j&nd I have come across a real critic." 

" I hope, at any rate, I am not a sham one ; " and Miss Van Siever 
as she said this looked very savage. 

" I shouldn't take you to be a sham in anything." 

"Ah, that would be saying a great deal for myself. Who can 
undertake to say that he is not a sham in anything ] " 

As she said this the ladies were getting up. So Miss Van Siever 
also got up, and left Mr. Conway Dalrymple to consider whether he 
could say or could think of himself that he was not a sham in anything. 
As regarded Miss Clara Van Siever, he began to think that he should 
not object to paint her portrait, even though there might be no sugar- 
plum. He would certainly do it as Jael ; and he would, if he dared, 
insert dimly in the background some idea of the face of the mother, 
half-appearing, half-vanishing, as the spirit of the sacrifice. He was 
composing his picture while Mr. Dobbs Broughton was arranging 
himself and his bottles. 

" Musselboro," he said, "I'll come up between you and Crosbie. 
Mr. Eames, though I run away from you, the claret shall remain ; or, 
rather, it shall flow backwards and forwards as rapidly as you will." 

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" m keep it moving," said Johnny. 

"Do ; there's a good fellow. It's a nice glass of wine, isn't it? Old 
Ramsby, who keeps as good a stock of stuff as any wine-merchant in 
London, gave me a hint, three or four years ago, that he'd a lot of tidy 
Bordeaux. It's '47, you know. He had ninety dozen, and I took it 

*'What was the figure, Broughtoni" said Crosbie, asking the 
question which he knew was expected. 

" Well, I only gave one hundred and four for it then ; it's worth a 
hundred and twenty now. I wouldn't sell a bottle of it for any money. 
Come, Dalrymple, pass it round ; but fiQ your glass first" 

" Thank you, no ; I don't like it. I'll drink sherry.*' 

" Don't like it ! " said Dobbs Bropghton. 

" It's strange, isn't it ] but I don't." 

" I thought you particularly told me to drink his claret % " said Johnny 
to his friend afterwards. 

'* So I did," said Conway ; " and wonderfully good wine it is. But 
I make it a rule never to eat or driuk anything in a man's house when 
he praises it himself and tells me the price of it." 

" And I make it a rule never to cut the nose off my own face," said 

Before they went Johnny Eames had been speciaUy invited to call 
on Lady Demolines, and had said that he would do so. " We live in 
Porchester Gardens," said Miss Demolines. " Upon my word, I believe 
that the farther London stretches in that direction, the farther mamma 
will go. She thinks the air so much better. I know it's a long way." 

" Distance is nothing to me," said Johnny ; " I can always set off 

Conway Dalrymple did not get invited to call on Mrs. Van Siever, 
but before he left the house he did say a word or two more to his 
friend Mrs. Broughton as to Clara Van Siever. " She is a fine young 
woman," he said ; " she is indeed." 

" You have found it out, have you 1 *' 

" Yes, I have found it out. I do not doubt that some day she'll 
murder her husband or her mother, or startle the world by some newly- 
invented crime ; but that only makes her the more interesting." 

"And when you add to that all the old woman's money," said 
Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, " you think that she might do ) " 

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" For a picture^ certainly. I'm speaking of her simply as a model. 
Could we not manage it % Get her once here without her mother 
knowing it, or Broughton, or any one. IVe got the subject, — ^Jael 
and Sisera, you know. I should like to put Musselboro in as Sisera, 
with the nail half driven in." Mrs. Dobbs Broughton declared that the 
scheme was a great deal too wicked for her participation, but at last she 
promised to think of it. 

" You might as well come up and have a cigar," Dalrymple said, as 
he and his friend left Mr. Broughton's house. Johnny said that he 
would go up and have a cigar or two. " And now teU me what you 
think of Mrs. Dobbs Broughton and her set," said Conway. 

"Well; m tell you what I think of them. I think they stink 
of money, as the people say ; but I'm not sure that they've got any all 
the same." 

" I should suppose he makes a large income." 

"Very likely, and perhaps spends more than he makes. A good 
deal of it looked to me like make-believe. There's no doubt about the 
claret, but the champagne was execrable. A man is a criminal to have 
such stuff handed round to his guests. And there isn't the ring of real 
gold about the house." 

" I hate the ring of the gold, as you call it," said the artist. 

" So do I, — I hate it like poison ; but if it is there, I like it to be true. 
There is a sort of persons going now, — and one meets them out, here 
and there, every day of one's life, — who are downright Brummagem to 
the ear and to the touch and to the sight, and we recognize them as such 
at the very first moment. My honoured lord and master, Sir Raffle, is 
one such. There is no mistaking him. Clap him down upon the 
counter, and he rings dull and untrue at once. Pardon me, my dear 
Conway, if I say the same of your excellent friend Mr. Dobbs 

" I think you go a little too far, but I don't deny it. What you mean 
is, that he's not a gentleman." 

" I mean a great deal more than that. Bless you, when you come 
to talk of a gentleman, who is to define the word 1 How do I know 
whether or no I'm a gentleman myself. When I used to be in Burton 
' Crescent, I was hardly a gentleman then, sitting at the same table with 
Mrs. Eoper and the Lupexes; — do you remember them, — and the 
lovely Amelia 1" 

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" I suppose you were a gentleman, then, as well as now ? " 

" You, if you had been painting duchesses then, with a studio in 
Kensington Gardens, would not have said so, if you had happened to 
come across me. I can't define a gentleman, even iii my own mind ; 
—but I can define the sort of man with whom I think I can live 

" And poor Dobbs doesn't come within the line % " 

" N — 0, not quite ; a very nice fellow, I'm quite sure, and I am very 
much obliged to you for taking me there." 

" I never will take you to any house again. And what did you 
think of his wife 1 " 

" That's a horse of another colour altogether. A pretty woman with 
such a figure as hers has got a right to be anything she pleases. I see 
you are a great favourite." 

" No, I'm not ; — ^not especially. I do like her. She wants to make 
up a match between me and that Miss Van Siever. Miss Van is to 
have gold by the ingot, and jewels by the bushel, and a hatful of bank 
shares, and a whole mine in Cornwall, for her fortune." 

" And is very handsome into the bargain." 

" Yes ; she's handsome." 

** So is her mother," said Johnny. If you take the daughter. 111 
take the mother, and see if I can't do you out of a mine or two. Good- 
night, old fellow. Tm only joking about old Dobbs. I'll go and dine 
there again to-morrow, if you like it." 

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'* I don't think you care two straws about her," Conway Dalrymple 
said to his friend John Eames, two days after the dinner-party at Mrs. 
Dobbs Broughton's. The painter was at work in his studio, and the 
private secretary from the Income-tax Ofl&ce, who was no doubt 
engaged on some special mission to the West End on the part of Sir 
RaflEe BuflEe, was sitting in a lounging-chair and smoking a cigar. 

" Because I don*t go about with my stockings cross-gartered, and do 
that kind of business % " 

" Well, yes ; because you don't do that kind of business, more or 

" It isn't in my line, my dear fellow. I know what you mean, very 
well I daresay, artistically speaking, " 

" Don't be an ass, Johnny." 

" Well then, poetically, or romantically, if you like that better, — I 
daresay that poetically or romantically I am deficient. I eat my dinner 
very well, and I don't suppose I ought to do that ; and, if you'll believe 
me, I find myself laughing sometimes." 

"I never knew a man who laughed so much. You're always 

" And that, you think, is a bad sign 1 " 

" I don't believe you really care about her. I think you are aware 
that you have got a love-affair on hand, and that you hang on to it 
rather persistently, having in some way come to a resolution that you 
would be persistent. But there isn't much heart in it. I daresay 
there was once." 

" And that is your opinion 1 " 

" You are just like some of those men who for years past have been 
going to write a book on some new subject. The intention has been 

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sincere at first, and it never altogether dies away. But the would-be 
author, though he still talks of his work, knows that it will never be 
executed, and is very patient under the disappointment. All en- 
thusiasm about the thing is gone, but he is still known as the man who 
is going to do it some day. You are the man who means to marry 
Miss Dale in five, ten, or twenty years' time." 

" Now, Conway, all that is thoroughly unfair. The would-be author 
talks of his would-be book to everybody. I have never talked of Miss 
Dale to any one but you, and one or two very old family friends. 
And from year to year, and from month to month, I have done all that 
has been in my power to win her. I don't think I shall ever succeed, 
and yet I am as determined about it as I was when I first began it, — 
or rather much more so. K I do not marry LiJy, I shall never marry 
at all, and if anybody were to tell me to-morrow that she had made up 
her mind to have me, I should well nigh go mad for joy. But I am 
not going to give up all my life for love. Indeed the less I can bring 
myself to give up for it, the better I shall think of myself. Now Til 
go away and call on old Lady Demolines." 

" And flirt with her daughter." 

" Yes ; — flirt with her daughter, if I get the opportunity. Why 
shouldn't I flirt with her daughter]" 

" Why not, if you like it ] " 

" I don't like it, — ^not particularly, that is ; because the young lady 
is not very pretty, nor yet very graceful, nor yet very wise." 

" She is pretty after a fashion," said the artist, " and if not wise, she 
is at any rate clever." 

" Nevertheless, I do not like her," said John Eames. 

" Then why do you go there % " 

^ One has to be civil to people though they are neither pretty nor 
wise. I don't mean to insinuate that Miss Demolines is particularly- 
bad, or indeed that she is worse than young ladies in general. I only 
abused her because there was an insinuation in what you said, that I was 
going to amuse myself with Miss Demolines in the absence of Miss 
Dale. The one thing has nothing to do with the other thing. Nothing 
that I shall say to Miss Demolines will at all militate against my 
loyalty to Lily." 

" All right, old fellow ; — I didn't mean to put you on your purgation. 
I want you to look at that sketch. Do you know for whom it is 

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intended 1 " Jolmny took up a scrap of paper, and having scrutinized 
it for a minute or twQ declared that he had not the slightest idea who 
was represented. " You know the subject, — the story that is intended 
to be told 1 " said Dalrymple. 

"Upon my word, I don't. There's some old fellow seems to be 
catching it over the head ; but it's all so confused I can't make much 
of it. The woman seems to be uncommon angry." 

" Do you ever read your Bible ? " 

" Ah, dear ! not as often as I ought to do. Ah, I see ; it*s Sisera. 
I never could quite believe that 8tx)ry. Jael might have killed Captain 
Sisera in his sleep, — for which, by-the-by, she ought to have been 
hung, and she might possibly have done it with a hammer and a nail. 
But she could not have driven it through, and staked him to the 

" I've warrant enough for putting it into a picture, at any rate. My 
Jael there is intended for Miss Van Siever." 

" Miss Van Siever ! Well, it is like her. Has she sat for it % " 

" O dear, no ; not yet. I mean to get her to do so. There's a 
strength about her, which would make her sit the part admirably. 
And I fancy she would like to be driving a nail into a fellow's head. 
I think I shall take Musselboro for a Sisera." 

" You're not in earnest 1 " 

" He would just do for it. But of course I shan't ask him to sit, as 
my Jael woxdd not like it. She would not consent to operate on so 
base a subject. So you really are going down to Guestwick 1 " 

" Yes ; I start to-morrow. Good-bye, old fellow. I'll come and sit 
for Sisera if you'll let me ; — only Miss Van Jael shall have a blunted 
nail, if you please." 

Then Johnny left the artist's room and walked across from Kensington 
to Lady Demolines' House. As he went he partly accused himself, 
and partly excused himself, in that matter of his love for Lily Dale. 
There were moments of his life in which he felt that he would willingly 
die for her, — that life was not worth having without her, — in which 
he went about inwardly reproaching fortune for having treated him so 
cruelly. "Why should she not be his] He half believed that she 
loved him. She had almost told him so. She could not surely still 
love that other man who had treated her with such vile falsehood ? 
As he considered the question in all its bearings he assured himself 

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over and over again that there would be now no fear of that rival ; — 
and yet he had such fears, and hated Crosbie almost as much as ever. 
It was a thousand pities, certainly, that the man should have been 
made free by the death of his wife. But it could hardly be that he 
should seek Lily again, or that Lily, if so sought, should even listen to 
him. But yet there he was, free once more, — an odious being, whom 
Johnny was determined to sacrifice to his vengeance, if cause for such 
sacrifice should occur. And thus thinking of the real truth of his love, 
he endeavoured to excuse himself to himself from that charge of 
vagueness and laxness which his friend Conway Balrymple had brought 
against him. And then again he accused hrmself of the same sin. If 
he had been positively in earnest, with downright manly earnestness, 
would he have allowed the thing to drag itself on with a weak 
uncertain life, as it had done for the last two or three years 1 Lily 
Dale had been a dream to him in his boyhood ; and he had made a 
reality of his dream as soon as he had become a man. But before he 
had been able, as a man, to tell his love to the girl whom he had loved 
as a child, another man had intervened, and his prize had been taken 
from him. Then the wretched victor had thrown his treasure away, 
and he, John Eames, had been content to stoop to pick it up, — was 
content to do so now. But there was something which he felt to be 
unmanly in the constant stooping. Dalrymple had told him that he 
was like a man who is ever writing a book and yet never writes it. 
He would make another attempt to get his book written, — an attempt 
into which he would throw all his strength and all his heart JSe 
would do his very best to make Lily his own. But if he failed now, 
he would have done with it. It seemed to him to be below his dignity 
as a man to be always coveting a thing which he could not obtain. 

Johnny was informed by the boy in buttons, who opened the door 
for him at Lady Demolines*, that the ladies were at home, and he was 
shown up into the drawing-roomu Here he was allowed full ten 
minutes to explore the knicknacks on the table, and open the photograph 
book, and examine the furniture, before Miss Demolines made her 
appearance. When she did come, her hair was tangled more 
marvellously even than when he saw her at the dinner-party, and her 
eyes were darker, and her cheeks thinner. " I'ni afraid mamma won't 
be able to come down," said Miss Demolines. " She will be so sorry ; 
but she is not quite well to-day. The wind is in the east, she says, 

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and when she says the wind is in the east she always refuses to be 

"Then I should tell her it. was in the west." 

" But it is in the east" 

" Ah, there I can*t help you, Miss Demolines. I never know which 
is east, and which west ; and if I did, I shouldn't know from which 
point the wind blew." 

" At any rate mamma can't come downstaiis, and you must excuse 
her. What a very nice woman Mrs. Dobbs Broughton is." Johnny 
acknowledged that Mrs. Dobbs Broughton was charming. " And Mr. 
Broughton is so good-natured I " Johnny again assented. " I like him 
of all things," said Miss Demolines. " So do I," said Johnny ; — " I 
never liked anybody so much in my life. I suppose one is bound to 
say that kind of thing." "Oh, you ill-natured man," said Miss 
Demolines. " I suppose you think that poor Mr. Broughton is a little 
—just a little, — ^you know what I mean," 

" Not exactly," said Johnny. 

" Yes, you do ; you know very well what I mean. And of course 
he is. How can he help it 1 " 

" Poor fellow, — no. I don't suppose he can help it, or he would ; 
—wouldn't he?" 

** Of course Mr. Broughton had not the advantage of birth or much 
eady education. All his friends know that, and make allowance 
accordingly. When she married him, she was aware of his deficiency, 
and^made up her mind to put up with it." 

" It was very kind of her ; don't you think so ) " 

" I knew Maria Clutterbuck for years before she was married. Of 
course she was very much my senior, but, nevertheless, we were friends. 
I think I was hardly more than twelve years old when I first began 
to correspond with Maria. She was then past twenty. So you see, 
Mr. Eames, I make no secret of my age." 

"Why should you?" 

*' But never mind that. Everybody knows that Maria Clutterbuck 
was very much admired. Of course I'm not going to tell you or any 
other gentleman all her history." 

" I "was in hopes you were." . 

" Then certainly your hopes will be frustrated, Mr. Eames. But 
undoubtedly when she told us that she was going to take Dobbs 

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Broughton, we were a little disappointed. Maria Clutterbuck had 
been used to a better kind of life. You understand what I mean, Mr. 

" Oh, exactly ; — and yet it's not a bad kind of life, either." 

"No, no; that is true. It has its attractions. She keeps her 
carriage, sees a good deal of company, has an excellent house, and 
goes abroad for six weeks every year. But you know, Mr. Eames, there 
is, perhaps, a little uncertainty about it." 

" Life is always uncertain. Miss Demolines." 

" You're quizzing now, I know. But don't you feel now, really, that 
City money is always very chancy 1 It comes and goes so quick." 

" As regards the going, I think that's the same with all money," 
said Johnny. 

" Not with land, or the funds. Mamma has every shilling laid out 
in a first-class mortgage on land at four per cent. That does make one 
feel so secure ! The land can't run away." 

" But you think poor Broughton's money may 1 " 

" It's all speculation, you know. I don't believe she minds it ; I 
don't, indeed. She lives that kind of fevered life now that she likes 
excitement. Of course we all know that Mr. Dobbs Broughton is not 
what we can call an educated gentleman. His manners are against 
liim, and he is very ignorant. Even dear Maria would admit that." 

"One would perhaps let that pass without asking her opinion 
at aU." 

" She has acknowledged it to me, twenty times. But he is very 
good-natured, and lets her do pretty nearly anything that she likes. I 
only hope she won't trespass on his good-nature. I do, indeed." 

" You mean, spend too much money 1 " 

"No; I didn't mean that exactly. Of course she ought to be 
moderate, and I hope she is. To that kind of fevered existence profuse 
expenditure is perhaps necessary. But I was thinking of something 
else. I fear she is a little giddy." 

" Dear me I I should have thought she was too — too — too " 

" You mean too old for anything of that kind. Maria Broughton 
must be thirty-three if she's a day." 

" That would make you just twenty-five," said Johnny, feeling 
perfectly sure as he said so that the lady whom he was addressing was 
at any rate past thirty ! 

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" N^ever mind my age, Mr. Eames ; whether I am twenty-five, or a 
hundred-and-five, has nothing to do with poor Maria Clutterbuck. But 
now I'll teU you why I mention all this to you. You must have seen 
how foolish she is about your friend Mr. Dalrymple ? " 

" Upon my word, I haven't." 

** Nonsense, Mr. Eames ; you have. If she were your wife, would 
you like her to call a man Conway ] Of course you would not. I 
don't mean to say that there's anything in it. I know Maria's principles 
too well to suspect that. It's merely because she's flighty and fevered." 

" That fevered existence accounts for it all," said Johnny. 

" No doubt it does," said Miss Demolines, with a nod of her head, 
which was intended to show that she was willing to give her friend 
the full benefit of any excuse which could be offered for her. ** But 
don't you think you could do something, Mr. Eames ] '* 

"I do something?" 

" Yes, you. You and Mr. Dalrymple are such friends ! If you 
were just to point out to him, you know " 

" Point out what ] Tell him that he oughtn't to be called Conway 1 
Because, after all, I suppose that's the worst of it. If you mean to say 
that Dalrymple is in love with Mrs. Broughton, you never made a 
greater mistake in your life." 

" Oh, no ; not in love. That would be terrible, you know." And 
Miss Demolines shook her head sadly. " But there may be so much 
mischief done without anything of that kind ! Thoughtlessness, you 
know, Mr. Eames, — pure thoughtlessness ! Think of what I have said, 
and if you can speak a word to your friend, do. And now I want to 
ask you something else. I'm so glad you're come, because circumstances 
have seemed to make it necessary that you and I should know each 
other. We may be of so much use if we put our heads together." 
Johnny bowed when he heard this, but made no immediate reply. 
"Have you heard anything about a certain picture that is being 
planned ? " Johnny did not wish to answer this question, but Misc 
Demolines paused so long, and looked so earnestly into his face, that 
he found himself forced to say something. 

"What picture 1" 

" A certain picture that is — , or, perhaps, that is not to be, painted 
by Mr. DabympleT' 

" I hear so much about Dalrymple's pictures 1 You don't mean the 

VOL. I. fi 

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portrait of Lady Glencora Palliserl That is nearly finished, and will 
be in the Exhibition this year." 

" I don't mean that at alL I mean a picture that has not yet been 

" A portrait, I suppose ? " 

" As to that I cannot quite say. It is at any rate to be a likeness. 
I am sure you have heard of it. Come, Mr. Eames ; it would be better 
that we should be candid with each other. You remember Miss Yan 
Siever, of course ? " 

" I remember that she dined at the Broughtons'." 

** And you have heard of Jael, I suppose, and Sisera ] " 

" Yes, in a general way, — ^in the Bible." 

" And now will you tell me whether you have not heard the names 
of Jael and Miss Van Siever coupled together 1 I see you know all 
about it." 

" I have heard of it, certainly." 

" Of course you have. So have I, as you perceive. Now, Mr. Eames," 
— and Miss Demolines' voice became tremulously eager as she addressed 
him, — " it is your duty, and it is my duty, to take care that that picture 
shall never be painted." 

" But why should it not be painted 1 " 

" You don't know Miss Yan Siever, yet % " 

"Not in the least." 

" Nor Mrs. Yan Siever ] " 

** I never spoke a word to her." 

" I do. I know them both, — ^well." There was something almost 
grandly tragic in Miss Demolines' voice as she thus spoke. "Yes, Mr. 
Eames, I know them well. If that scheme be continued, it will work 
terrible mischief. You and I must prevent it." 

" But I don't see what harm it will do." 

"Think of Conway Dalrymple passing so many hours in Maria's 
sitting-room upstairs ! The picture is to be painted there, you know." 

" But Miss Yan Siever will be present. Won't that make it all right 1 
What is there wrong about Miss Yan Siever?" 

" I won't deny that Clara Yan Siever has a certain beauty of her own. 
To me she is certainly the most unattractive woman that I ever came 
near. She is simply repulsive ! " Hereupon Miss Demolines 'held up 
her hand as though she were banishing Miss Yan Siever for ever from 

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ner sight, and shuddered slightly. " Men think her handsome, and she 
is handsome. But she is false, covetous, malicious, cruel, and dishonest.'* 

" What a fiend in petticoats ! " 

" You may say that, Mr. Eames. And then her mother ! Her mother 
is not so bad. Her mother is very different. But the mother is an 
odious woman, too. It was an evil day for Maria Clutterbuck when 
she first saw either the mother or the daughter. I tell you that in 

" But what can I do 1 " said Johnny, who began to be startled and 
almost interested by the e^^emess of the woman. 

" I'll tell you what you can do. Don't let your friend go to Mr. 
Broughton's house to paint the picture. If he does do it, there will 
mischief come of it. Of course you can prevent him." 

" I should not think of trying to prevent him unless I knew why." 

" She's a nasty proud minx, and it would set her up ever so high, — 
to think that she was being painted by Mr. Dalrymple ! But that 
isn't the reason. Maria would get into terrible trouble about it, and there 
would be no end of mischief. I must not tell you more now, and if you 
do not believe me, I cannot help it. Surely, Mr. Eames, my word may 
be taken as going for something] And when I ask you to help me 
iu this, I do expeiit that you will not refuse me." By this time Miss 
Demolines was sitting close to him, and had more than once put her 
hand upon his arm in the energy of her eloquence. Then as he remem- 
bered that he had never seen Miss Demolines till the other day, or Miss 
Van Siever, or even Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, he bethought himself that 
it was all very droll. Nevertheless he had no objection to Miss Demo- 
lines putting her hand upon his arm. 

" I never like to interfere in anything that does not seem to be my 
own business," said Johnny. 

" Is not your friend's business your ovm business 1 What does friend- 
ship mean if it is not sol And when 1 tell you that it is my business, mine 
of right, does that go for nothing with you % I thought I might depend 
upon you, Mr. Eames ; I did indeed." Then again she put her hand 
upon his arm, and as he looked into her eyes he began to think that 
after aU. she was good-looking in a certain way. At any rate she had 
fine eyes, and there was something picturesque about the entanglement 
of her hair. " Think of it, and then come back and talk to me again," 
said Miss Demolines. 

R 2 

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" Bat I am going out of town to-morrow." 

"For how long r' 

"For ten days." 

" Nothing can be done during that time. Clara Van Siever is going 
away in a day, and will not be back for three weeks. I happen to know 
that ; 80 we have plenty of time for working. It would be very desir- 
able that she should never even hear of it ; but that cannot be hoped, 
as Maria has such a tongue ! Couldn't you see Mr. Dalrymple to-night 1" 

"Well, no; I don't think I could." 

" Mind, at least, that you come to me as soon as ever you return." 

Before he got out of the house, which he did after a most affectionate 
farewell, Johnny felt himself compelled to promise that he would come 
to Miss Demolines again as soon as he got back to town ; and as the 
door was closed behind him by the boy in buttons, he made up his 
mind that he certainly would call as soon as he returned to London. 
" It's as good as a play," he said to himself. Not that he cared in the least 
for Miss Demolines, or that he would take any steps with the intention of 
preventing the painting of the picture. Miss Demolines had some 
battle to fight, and he would leave her to fight it with her own weapons. 
If lus friend chose to paint a picture of Jael, and take Miss Yan Siever 
as a model, it was no business of his. Nevertheless he would certainly 
go and see Miss Demolines again, because, as he said, she was as good 
as a play. 

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On that same afternoon Conway Dalrymple rolled up his sketch of Jael 
and Sisera, put it into his pocket, dressed himself with some considerable 
care, putting on a velvet coat which he was in the habit of wearing out 
of doors when he did not intend to wander beyond Kensington Gardens 
and the neighbourhood, and which was supposed to become him well, 
yellow gloves, and a certain Spanish hat of which he was fond, and 
slowly sauntered across to the house of his friend Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. 
When the door was opened to him he did not ask if the lady were at 
home, but muttering some word to the servant, made his way through 
the hall, upstairs, to a certain small sitting-room looking to the north, 
which was much used by the mistress of the house. It was quite clear 
that Conway Dalrymple had arranged his visit beforehand, and that he 
was expected. He opened the door without knocking, and, though the 
servant had followed him, he entered without being announced. " I'm 
afraid I'm late,*' he said, as he gave his hand to Mrs. Broughton ; " but 
for the life I could not get away sooner." 

** You are quite in time," said the lady, " for any good that you are 
likely to do." 

" What does that mean ? " 

" It means this, my friend, that you had better give the idea up. 
I have been thinking of it all day, and I do not approve of it." 

" What nonsense 1 " 

" Of course you will say so, Conway. I have observed of late that 
whatever I say to you is called nonsense. I suppose it is the new 
fashion that gentlemen should so express themselves, but I am not 
quite sure that I like it." 

" You know what I mean. I am very anxious about this picture, 

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and I shall be much disappointed if it cannot be done now. It was 
you put it into my head first." 

*' I regret it very much, I can assure you ; but it will not be generous 
in you to urge that against me." 

*' But why shouldn^t it succeed 1 " 

" There are many reasons, — some personal to myself." 

" I do not know what they can be. You hinted at something which 
I only took as having been said in joke." 

" If you mean about Miss Van Siever and yourself, I was quite in 
earnest, Conway. I do not think you could do better, and I should be 
glad to see it of all things. Nothing would please me more than to 
bring Miss Van Siever and you together." 

" And nothing would please me less." 

"But why sol" 

" Because, — ^because . I can do nothing but tell you the truth, 

carina; because my heart is not free to present itself at Miss Van. 
Siever's feet." 

" It ought to be free, Conway, and you must make it free. It will 
be well that you should be married, and well for others besides yourself. 
I tell you so as your friend, and you have no truer friend. Sit where 
you are, if you please. You can say anything you have to say without 
stalking about the room." 

" I was not going to stalk, — as you call it." 

" You will be safer and quieter while you are sitting. I heard a 
knock at the door, and I do not doubt that it is Clara. She said she 
would be here." 

" And you have told her of the picture 1 " 

** Yes ; I have told her. She said that it would be impossible, and 
that her mother would not allow it. Here she is." Then Miss Van 
Siever was shown into the room, and Dalrymple perceived that she 
was a girl the peculiarity of whose complexion bore daylight better 
even than candlelight. There was something in her countenance which 
seemed to declare that she could bear any light to which it might be 
subjected without flinching from it. And her bonnet, which was very 
plain, and her simple brown morning gown, suited her well. She was 
one who required none of the circumstances of studied dress to carry 
off aught in her own appearance. She could look her best when other 
women look their worst, and could dare to be seen at all times. 

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Dalrymple, with an artist's eye, saw this at once, and immediately 
confessed to himself that there was something great about her. He 
could not deny her beauty. But there was ever present to him that 
look of hardness which had struck him when he first saw her. He 
could not but fancy that though at times she might be playful, and 
allow the fur of her coat to be stroked with good-humour, — she would 
be a dangerous plaything, using her claws unpleasantly when the good- 
humour should have passed away. But not the less was she beautiful, 
and, — ^beyond that and better than that, for his purpose, — she was 

*' Clara," said Mrs. Broughton, " here is this mad painter, and he 
says that he will have you on his canvas, either with your will or 
without it." 

" Even if he could do that, I am sure he would not," said Miss Van 

" To prove to you that I can, I think I need only show you the 
sketch," said Dalrymple, taking the drawing out of his pocket. " As 
regards the face, I know it so well by heart already, that I feel certain 
I could produce a likeness without even a sitting. What do you think 
of it, Mrs. Broughton % " 

" It is clever," said she, looking at it with all that enthusiasm which 
women are able to throw into their eyes on such occasions ; " very 
clever. The subject would just suit her. I have never doubted 

" Eames says that it is confused," said the artist. 

" I don't see that at all," said Mrs. Broughton. 

" Of course a sketch must be rough. This one has been rubbed 
about and altered — ^but I think there is something in it." 

" An immense deal," said Mrs. Broughton. " Don't you think so, 

" I am not a judge." 

" But you can see the woman's fixed purpose ; and her stealthiness 
as well; — and the man sleeps like a log. What is that dim out- 

" Nothing in particular," sa*d Dalrymple. But the dim outline was 
intended to represent Mrs. Van Siever. 

" It is very good, — unquestionably good," said Mrs. Dobbs 
Broughton. " I do not for a moment doubt that you would make a 

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great picture of it. It is just the subject for you, Conway ; so mucli 
imagination, and yet sucli a scope for portraiture. It would be fall of 
action, and yet such perfect repose. And the lights and shadows 
would be exactly in your line. I can see at a glance how you would 
manage the light in the tent, and bring it down just on the naiL And 
then the pose of the woman would be so good, so much strength, and 
yet such grace ! You should have the bowl he drank the milk out of, 
so as to tell the whole story. No painter living tells a story so well 
as you do, Conway." Conway Dairy mple knew that the woman was 
talking nonsense to him, and yet he liked it, and liked her for talk- 
ing it. 

" But Mr. Dalrymple can paint his Sisera without making me a 
Jael," said Miss Yan Siever. 

" Of course he can," said Mrs. Broughton. 

" But I never will," said the artist. " I conceived the subject as 
connected with you, and I will never disjoin the two ideas." 

"I think it no compliment, I can assure you," said Miss Van 

" And none was intended. But you may observe that artists in all 
ages have sought for higher types of models in painting women who 
have been violent or criminal, than have sufficed for them in their 
portraitures of gentleness and virtue. Look at all the Judiths, and the 
Lucretias, and the Charlotte Cordays ; how much finer the women are 
than the Madonnas and the Saint Cecilias." 

" After that, Clara, you need not scruple to be a Jael," said Mrs. 

" But I do scruple, — ^very much; so strongly that I know I never 
shall do it. In the first place I don't know why Mr. Dalrymple 
wants it." 

"Want it ! " said Conway. " I want to paint a striking picture." 

" But you can do that without putting me into it." 

"No; — not this picture. And why should you object 1 It is 
the commonest thing in the world for ladies to sit to artists in that 

" People would know it." 

" Nobody would know it, so that you need care about it. What 
would it matter if eveiybody knew it ] We are not proposing any- 
thing improper; — are we, Mrs. Broughton?" 

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"She shall not be pressed if she does not like it,'* said Mrs. 
Broughton. " You know I told you before Clara came in that I was 
afraid it could not be done." 

"And I don't like it," said Miss Van Siever, with some little hesi- 
tation in her voice. 

" I don't see anything improper in it, if you mean that," said Mrs. 

" But mamma ! " 

" Well, yes ; that is the difficulty, no doubt. The only question is, 
-whether your mother is not so very singular as to make it impossible 
that you should comply with her in everything." 

*^ I am afraid that I do not comply with her in very much," said 
Miss Van Siever, in her gentlest voice. 
" Oh, Clara ! " 

" You drive me to say so, as otherwise I should be a hypocrite. Of 
course I ought not to have said it before Mr. Dalrymple." 

" You and Mr. Dalrymple will understand all about that, I daresay, 
before the .picture is finished," said Mrs. Broughton. 

It did not take much persuasion on the part of Conway Dalrymple 
to get the consent of the younger lady to be painted, or of the elder to 
allow the sitting to go on in her room. When the question of easels 
and other apparatus came to be considered Mrs. Broughton was rather 
flustered, and again declared with energy that the whole thing must 
fall to the ground ; but a few more words from the painter restored 
her, and at last the arrangements were made. As Mrs. Dobbs 
Broughton's dear friend, Madalina Demolines, had said, Mrs. Dobbs 
Broughton liked a fevered existence. " What will Dobbs say 1 " she 
exclaimed more than once. And it was decided that Dobbs at last 
should know nothing about it as long as it could be kept from him. 
" Of course he shall be told at last," said his wife. " I wouldn't keep 
anything from the dear fellow for all the world. But if he knew it at 
first it would be sure to get through Musselboro to your mother." 

" I certainly shall beg that Mr. Broughton may not be taken into 
confidence if Mr. Musselboro is to follow," said Clara. "And it must 
be understood that I must cease to sit immediately, whatever may be 
the inconvenience, should mamma speak to me about it." 

This stipulation was made and conceded, and then Miss Van Siever 
went away, leaving the artist with Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. " And 

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now, if you please, Conway, you had better go too," said the lady, as 
soon as there had been time for Miss Van Siever to get downstairs and 
out of the hall-door. 

" Of course you are in a hurry to get rid of me." 

"Yes, lam." 

" A little while ago I improperly said that some suggestion of yours 
was nonsense and you rebuked me for my blunt incivility. Might not 
T rebuke you now with equal justice ] " 

" Do so, if you will ; — but leave me. I tell you, Conway, that in 
these matters you must either be guided by me, or you and I must 
cease to see each other. It does not do that you should remain here 
with me longer than the time usually allowed for a morning caU. Clara 
has come and gone, and you also must go. I am sorry to disturb you, 
for you seem to be so very comfortable in that chair." 

" I am comfortable, — smd I can look at you. Come ; — there can be 
no harm in saying that, if I say nothing else. Well ; — there, now I 
am gone," Whereupon he got up from his arm-chair. 

" But you are not gone while you stand there." 

" And you would really wish me to marry that girl 1 " 

" I do, — if you can love her." 

" And what about her love ] " 

" You must win it, of course. She is to be won, like any other 
woman. The fruit won't fall into your mouth merely because you open 
your lips. You must climb the tree.", 

" Still climbing trees in the Hesperides," said Conway. " Love does 
that, you know ; but it is hard to climb the trees without the love. It 
seems to me that I have done my climbing, — have clomb as high as I 
knew how, and that the boughs are breaking with me, and that I am 
likely to get a fall. Do you understand me 1 " 

" I would rather not understand you." 

** That is no answer to my question. Do you understand that at 
this moment I am getting a fall 'Vf hich will break every bone in my skin 
and put any other climbing out of the question as far as I am concerned 1 
Do you understand that 1 " 

" No ; I do not," said Mrs. Broughton in a tremulous voice. 

" Then I'll go and make love at once to Clara Van Siever. There's 
enough of pluck left in me to ask her to marry me, and I suppose I 
could manage to go through the ceremony if she accepted me." 

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" But I want you to love her," said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. 

" I daresay I should love her well enough after a bit ; — that is, if she 
didn't break my head or comb my hair. I suppose there will be no 
objection to my saying that you sent me when I ask her T' 

" Conway, you will of course not mention my name to her. I have 
suggested to you a marriage which I think would tend to make you 
happy, and would give you a stability in life which you want. It is 
perhaps better that I should be explicit at once. As an unmarried man 
I cannot continue to know you. You have said words of late which 
have driven me to this conclusion. I have thought about it much, — 
too much, perhaps, and I know that I am right. Miss Van Siever has 
beauty and wealth, and intellect, and I think that she would appreciate 
the love of such a man as you are. l^ow go." And Mrs. Dobbs 
Broughton, standing upright, pointed to the door. Conway Dalrymple 
slowly took his Spanish hat from off the marble slab on which he had 
laid it, and left the room without saying a word. The interview had 
been quite long enough, and there was nothing else which he knew how 
to say with effect. 

Croquet is a pretty game out of doors, and chess is delightful in a 
drawing-room. Battledore and shuttlecock and hunt the sKpper have 
also their attractions. Proverbs are good, and cross questions with 
crooked answers may be made very amusing. But none of these games 
are equal to the game of love-making, — providing that the players can 
be quite sure that there shall be no heart in the matter. Any touch of 
heart not only destroys the pleasure of the game, but makes the player 
awkward and incapable and robs him of his skilL And thus it is that 
there are many people who cannot play the game at all. A deficiency 
of some needed internal physical strength prevents the owners of the 
heart from keeping a proper control over its valves, and thus emotion 
sets in, and the pulses are accelerated, and feeling supervenes. For such 
a one to attempt a game of love-making, is as though your friend with 
the gout should insist on playing croquet. A sense of the ridiculous, 
if nothing else, should in either case deter the afflicted one from the 
attempt. There was no such absurdity with our friend Mrs. Dobbs 
Broughton and Conway Dalrymple. Their valves and pulses were all 
right. They could play the game without the slightest danger of any 
inconvenient result ; — of any inconvenient result, that is, as regarded 
their own feelings. Blind people cannot see and stupid people cannot 

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understand, — and it might be that Mr. Dobbs Broughton, being both 
blind and stupid in such matters, might perceive something of the 
playing of the game and not know that it was only a* game of skill 

When I say that as regarded these two lovers there was nothing of 
love between them, and that the game was therefore so far innocent, I 
would not be understood as asserting that these people had no hearts 
within their bosoms. Mrs. Dobbs Broughton probably loved her 
husband in a sensible, humdrum way, feeling him to be a bore, knowing 
him to be vulgar, aware that he often took a good deal more wine than 
was good for him, and that he was almost as uneducated as a hog. Yet 
she loved him, and showed her love by taking care that he should have 
things for dinner which he liked to eat. But in this alone there were 
to be found none of the charms of a fevered existence, and therefore 
Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, requiring those charms for her comfort, played 
her little game with Conway Dalrymple. And as regarded the artist 
himself, let no reader presume him to have been heartless because he 
flirted with Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. Doubtless he will marry some 
day, will have a large family for which he will work hard, and will 
make a good husband to some stout lady who will be careful in looking 
after his linen. But on the present occasion he fell into some slight 
trouble in spite of the innocence of his game. As he quitted his friend's 
room he heard the hall-door slammed heavily ; then there was a quick 
step on the stairs, and on the landing-place above the first flight he met 
the master of the house, somewhat flurried, as it seemed, and not 
looking comfortable, either as regarded his person or his temper. " By- 
George, he's been drinking 1 " Conway said to himself, after the first 
glance. Now it certainly was the case that poor Dobbs Broughton 
would sometimes drink at improper hours. 

" What the devil are you doing here ? " said Dobbs Broughton to his 
friend the artist. " You're always here. You're here a doosed sight 
more than I hke." Husbands when they have been drinking are very- 
apt to make mistakes as to the purport of the game. 

" Why, Dobbs," said the painter, " there's something wrong with 

" No, there ain't. There's nothing wrong ; and if there was, what's 
that to youl I shan't ask you to pay anything for me, I suppose." 

" WeU ;— -I hope not." 

" I won't have you here, and let that be an end of it. It's all very 

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well when I choose to have a few friends to dinner, but my wife can 
do very well without your f al-lalling here all day. Will you remember 
that, if you please ] " 

Conway Dalrymple, knowing that he had better not argue any question 
with a drunken man, took himself out of the house, shrugging his 
shoulders as he thought of the misery which his poor dear playfellow 
would now be called upon to endure. 



On the morning after his visit to Miss Demolines John Eames found 
himself at the Paddington station asking for a ticket for Guestwick, 
and as he picked up his change another gentleman also demanded a 
ticket for the same place. Had Guestwick been as Liverpool or 
Manchester, Eames would have thought nothing about it. It is a 
matter of course that men should always be going from London to 
Liverpool and Manchester ; but it seemed odd to him that two men 
should want first-class tickets for so small a place as Guestwick at the 
same moment. And when, afterwards, he was placed by the guard 
in the same carriage with this other traveller, he could not but feel 
some little curiosity. The man was four or five years Johnn/s senior, 
a good-looking fellow, with a pleasant face, and the outward appurten- 
ances of a gentleman. The intelligent reader will no doubt be aware 
that the stranger was Major Grantly ; but the intelligent reader has in 
this respect had much advantage over John Eames, who up to 'this 
time had never even heard of his cousin Grace Crawley's lover. "I 
think you were asking for a ticket for Guestwick 1" said Johnny; 
whereupon the Major owned that such was the case. "I lived at 
Guestwick the greater part of my life,'* said Johnny, "and it's the 

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dullest, dearest little town in all England." "I never was there 
before," said the major, " and indeed I can hardly say I am going there 
now. I shall only pass through it." Then he got out his newspap^, 
and Johnny also got out his, and for a time there was no conversation 
between them. John remembered- how holy was the errand upon 
which he was intent, and gathered his thoughts together, resolving 
that having so great a matter on his mind he would think about 
nothing else and speak about nothing at aU. He was going down to 
Allington to ask Lily Dale for the last time whether she would be his 
wife ; to ascertain whether he was to be successful or unsuccessful in the 
one great wish of his life ; and, as such was the case with him, — as he 
had in hand a thing so vital, it could be nothing to him whether the 
chance companion of his voyage was an agreeable or a disagreeable 
person. He himself, in any of the ordinary circumstances of life, was 
prone enough to talk with any one he might meet. He could have 
travelled for twelve hours together with an old lady, and could listen 
to her or make her listen to him without half an hour's interruption. 
But this journey was made on no ordinary occasion, and it behoved 
him to think of Lily. Therefore, after the first little almost necessary 
effort at civility, he fell back into gloomy silence. He was going to 
do his best to win Lily Dale, and this doing of his best would require 
all his thought and all his energy. 

And probably Major Grantly's mind was bent in the same direction. 
He, too, had his work before him, and could not look upon his work 
as a thing that was altogether pleasant. He might probably get that 
which he was intent upon obtaining. He knew, — he almost knew, — 
that he had won the heart of the girl whom he was seeking. There 
had been that between him and her which justified him in supposing 
that he was dear to her, although no expression of affection had ev«r 
passed from her lips to his ears. Men may know all that they require 
to know on that subject without any plainly spoken words. Graee 
Crawley had spoken no word, and yet he had known, — at any rate 
had not doubted, that he could have the place in her heart of which 
he desired to be the master. She would never surrender herself 
altogether till she had taught herself to be sure of him to whom she 
gave herself. But she had listened to him with silence that had not 
rebuked him, and he had told himself that he might venture, without 
fear of that rebuke as to which the minds of some men are sensitive 

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to a degree which otiher men cannot even understand. But for all this 
Major Grantly could not be altogether happy as to his mission. He 
would ask Grace Crawley to be his wife ; but he would be ruined by 
his own success. And the remembrance that he would be severed from 
all his own family by the thing that he was doing, was very bitter to 
him. In generosity he might be silent about this to Grace, but who 
caa endure to be silent on such a subject to the woman who is to be 
his wife 1 And then it would not be possible for him to abstain from 
explanation. He was now following her down to Allington, a step 
which he certainly would not have taken but for the misfortune which 
had befallen her father, and he must explain to her in some sort why 
he did so. He must say to her, — if not in so many words, still almost 
as plainly as words could speak, — I am here now to ask you to be my 
wife, because you specially require the protection and countenance of 
the man who loves you, in the present circumstances of your father's 
affairs. He knew that he was doing right ; — perhaps had some idea 
^«iat he was doing nobly ; but this very appreciation of his own good 
quahties made the task before him the more difficult. 

Major Grantly had The Times, and John Eames had the Daily News, 
and they exchanged papers. One had the last Saturday, and the other 
the last Spectator, and they exchanged those also. Then at last when 
they were within half-an hour of the end of their journey, Major Grantly 
asked his companion what was the best inn at Guestwick. He had at 
first been minded to go on to Allington at once, — ^to go on to Allington 
and get his work done, and then return home or remain there, or find 
the nearest inn with a decent bed, as circumstances might direct him. 
But on reconsideration, as he drew nearer to the scene of his future 
operations, he thought that it might be well for him to remain that 
night at Guestwick."* He did not quite know how far Allington was 
from Guestwick, but he did know that it was still mid-winter, and that 
the days were very short. ** The Magpie " was the best inn, Johnny 
said. Having lived at Guestwick all his life, and having a mother 
living there now, he had never himself put up at " The Magpie," but 
he believed it to be a good country inn. They kept post-horses there, 
he knew. He did not tell the stranger that his late old friend Lord 
De Guest, and his present old friend. Lady Julia, always hbed post- 
horses from " The Magpie,'* but he grounded his ready assertion on the 
remembrance of that fact " I think I shall stay there to-night,'* said 

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the major. "You^ll find it pretty comfortable, I don'fc doubt," said 
Johnny. " Though, indeed, it always seems to me that a man alone at 
an inn has a very bad time of it. Reading is all very well, but one 
gets tired of it at last. And then I hate horse-hair chairs." " It isn't 
very delightful," said the major, " but beggars mustn't be choosers." 
Then there was a pause, after which the major spoke again. " You 
don't happen to know which way Allington lies t " 

" Allington ! " said Johnny. 

" Yes, Allington. Is there not a village called Allington 1 " 

" There is a village called Allington, certainly. It lies over there." 
And Johnny pointed with his finger through the window. " As you 
do not know the country you can see nothing, but I can see the 
Allington trees at this moment." 

" I suppose there is no inn at Allington 1 '* 

"There's a public-house, with a very nice clean bedroom. It is 
called the * Red Lion.* Mrs. Forrard keeps it. I would quite as soon 
stay there as at * The Magpie.' Only if they don't expect you, they 
wouldn't have much for dinner." 

" Then you know the village of Allington 1 '* 

" Yes, I know the village of Allington very well. I have friends 
living there. Indeed, I may say I know everybody in Allington." 

" Do you know Mrs. Dale 1 " 

"Mrs. Dale]" said Johnny. "Yes, I know Mrs. Dale. I have 
known Mrs. Dale pretty nearly all my life." Who could this man be 
who was going down to see Mrs. Dale, — Mrs. Dale, and consequently, 
Lily Dale? He thought that he knew Mrs. Dale so well, that she 
oould have no visitor of whom he would not be entitled to have ^ome 
knowledge. But Major Grantly had nothing more to say at the moment 
about Mrs. Dale. He had never seen Mrs. Dal^ in his life, and was 
now going to her house, not to see her, but a friend of hers. He found 
that he could not very well explain this to a stranger, and therefore at 
the moment he said nothing further. But Johnny would not allow the 
subject to be dropped. "Have you known Mrs. Dale long?" he 

" I have not the pleasure of knowing her at all," said the major. 

" I thought, perhaps, by your asking after her ^" 

" I intend to call upon her, that is all. I suppose they will have an 
omnibus here from ' The Magpie 1 ' " Eames said that there no doubt 

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•would be an omnibus from " The Magpie," and then they were at their 
journey's end. 

For the present we will follow John Eamea who went at once to his 
mother's house. It was his intention to remain there for two or three 
days, and then go over to the house, or rather to the cottage, of his 
great ally Lady Julia, which, lay just beyond Guestwick Manor, and 
somewhat nearer to Allington than to the town of Guestwick. He had 
made up his mind that he would not himself go over to Allington till 
he could do so from Guestwick Cottage, as it was called, feeling that, 
under certain untoward circumstances, — should untoward circumstances 
arise, — ^Lady Julia's sympathy might be more endurable than that of 
his mother. But he would take care that it should be known at 
AUington that he was in the "neighbourhood. He understood the 
necessary strategy of his campaign too well to suppose that he could 
startle Lily into acquiescence. 

With his own mother and sister John Eames was in these days quite 
a hero. He was a hero with them now, because in his early boyish 
days there had been so little about him that was heroic. Then there 
had been a doubt whether he would ever earn his daily bread, and he 
had been a very heavy burden on the slight family resources in the 
matter of jackets and trousers. The pride taken in our Johnny had 
not been great, though the love felt for him had been warm. But 
gradually things had changed, and John Eames had become heroic in 
his mother's eyes. A chance circumstance had endeared him to Earl 
De Guest, and from that moment things had gone well with him. 
The earl had given him a watch and had left him a fortune, and Sir 
Eaffle Buffle had made him a private secretary. In the old days, when 
Johnny's love for Lily Dale was first discussed by his mother and 
sister, they had thought it impossible that Lily should ever bring 
herself to regard with affection so humble a suitor ; — for the Dales 
have ever held their heads up in the world. But now there is no 
misgiving on that score with Mrs. Eames and her daughter. Their 
wonder is that Lily Dale should be such a fool as to decline the love of 
such a man. So Johnny was received with the respect due to a hero, 
as well as with the affection belonging to a son ; — by which I mean it 
to be inferred that Mrs. Eames had got a little bit of fish for dinner as 
well as a leg of mutton. 

"A man came down in the train with me who says he is going over 

VOL. I. s 

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to Allington," said Johnny. " I wonder who he can be. He is staying 
at * The Magpie.''' 

" A friend of Captain Dale's, probably," said Mary. Captain Dale 
was the squire's nephew and his heir. 

" But this man was not going to the squire's. He was going to the 
Small House." 

" Is he going to stay there 1 " 

" I suppose not, as he asked about the inn." Then Johnny reflected 
that the man might probably be a friend of Crosbie's, and became 
melancholy in consequence. Crosbie might have thought it expedient 
to send an ambassador down to prepare the ground for him before he 
should venture again upon the scene himsel£ If it were s6, would it not 
be well that he, John Eames, should get over to Lily as soon as possible, 
and not wait till he should be staying with Lady Julia % 

It was at any rate incumbent upon him to call upon Lady Julia the 
next morning, because of his commission. The Berlin wool might 
remain in his portmanteau till his portmanteau should go with him to 
the cottage ; but he would take the spectacles at once, and he must 
explain to Lady Julia what the lawyers had told him about the income. 
So he hired a saddle-horse from "The Magpie" and started after 
breakfast on the morning after his arrival. In his unheroic days he 
would have walked, — as he had done, scores of times, over the whole 
distance from Guestwick to Allington. But now in these grander days, 
he thought about his boots and the mud, and the formal appearance of 
the thing. " Ah dear," he said, to himself, as the nag walked slowly 
out of the town, " it used to be better with me in the old days. I 
hardly hoped that she would ever accept me, but at least she had never 
refused me. And then that brute had not as yet made his way down 
to Allington!" 

He did not go very fast. After leaving the town he trotted on for 
a mile or so. But when he got to the palings of Guestwick Manor he 
let the animal walk again, and his mind ran back over the incidents 
of his life which were connected with the place. He remembered a 
certain long ramble which he had taken in those woods after Lily had 
refused him. That had been subsequent to the Crosbie episode in his 
life, and Johnny had been led to hope by certain of his friends, — 
especially by Lord De Guest and his sister, — that he might then be 
successful. But he had been unsuccessful, and had passed the bitterest 

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hour of his life wandering about in those woods. Since that he had 
been unsuccessful again and again ; but the bitterness of failure had not 
been so strong with him as on that first occasion. He would try again 
now, and if he failed, he would fail for the last time. As he was 
thinking of all this, a gig overtook him on the road, and on looking 
round he saw that the occupant of the gig was the man who had 
travelled with him on the previous day in the train. Major Grantly 
was alone in the gig, and as he recognized John Eames he stopped his 
horse. " Are you also going to Allington % " he asked. John Eames, 
with something of scorn in his voice, replied that he had no intention 
of going to Allington on that day. He still thought that this man 
might be an emissary from Crosbie, and therefore resolved that but 
scant courtsey was due to him. " I am on my way there now," said 
Grantly, " and am going to the house of your friend. May I tell her 
that I travelled with you yesterday?" 

" Yes, sir," said Johnny. " You may tell her that you came down 
with John Eames." 

"And are you John Eames?" asked the major. 

" If you have no objection," said Johnny. " But I can hardly suppose 
you have ever heard my name before ? " 

" It is familiar to me, because I have the pleasure of knowing a cousin 
of yours. Miss Grace Crawley." 

" My. cousin is at present staying at Allington with Mrs. Dale," said 

**Just so," said the major, who now began to reflect that he had 
been indiscreet in mentioning Grace Crawley's name. No doubt every 
one connected with the family, all the Crawleys, all the Dales, and all 
the Eameses, would soon know the business which had brought him 
down to Allington ; but he need not have taken the trouble of begin- 
ning the story against himself. John Eames, in truth, had never even 
heard Major Grantly's name, and was quite unaware of the fortune 
which awaited his cousin. Even after what he had now been told, he 
still suspected the stranger of being an emissary from his enemy ; but 
the major, not giving him credit for his ignorance, was annoyed with 
himself for having told so much of his own history. " I will tell the 
ladies that I had the pleasure of meeting you," he said ; " that is, if I 
am lucky enough to see them." And then he drove on. 

" I know I should hate that fellow if I were to meet him anywhere 

6 2 

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again," said Johnny to himself as he rode on. "When I take an 
aversion to a fellow at first sight, I always stick to it. It's instinct, I 
suppose." And he was still giving himself credit for the strength of 
his instincts when he reached Lady Julia's cottage. He rode at once 
into the stableyard, with the privilege of an accustomed friend of the 
house, and having given up his horse, entered the cottage by the back 
door. " Is my lady at home, Jemima ] " he said to the maid. 

" Yes, Mr. John ; she is in the drawing-room, and friends of yonrs 
are with her." Then he was announced, and found himself in the 
presence of Lady Julia, Lily Dale, and Grace Crawley. 

He was very warmly received. Iiady Julia really loved him dearly, 
and would have done anything in her power to bring about a match 
between him and Lily. Grace was his cousin, and though she had not 
seen him often, she was prepared to love him dearly as Lily's lover. 
And Lily, — Lily loved him dearly too, — if only she could have brought 
herself to love him as he wished to be loved ! To all of them Johnny 
Eames was something of a hero. At any rate in the eyes of all of 
them he possessed those virtues which seemed to them to justify them 
in petting him and making much of him. 

" I am so glad you've come, — that is, if you've brought my spectacles," 
fiaid Lady Julia. 

" My pockets are crammed with spectacles," said Johnny. 

*' And when are you coming to me 1" 

" I was thinking of Tuesday." 

" No ; don't come till* Wednesday But I mean Monday. , No ; 
Monday won't do. Come on Tuesday early, and drive mo out And 
now tell us the news." 

Johnny swore that there was no news. He made a brave attempt 
to be gay and easy before Lily ; but he failed, — and he knew that he 
failed, — and he knew that she knew that he failed. "Mamma will be 
so glad to see you," said Lily. "I suppose you haven't seen Bell 

" I only got to Guestwick yesterday afternoon," said he. 

" And it will be so nice our having Grace at the Small House, — 
won't it 1 Uncle Christopher has quite taken a passion for Grace, — 
so that I am hardly anybody now in the Allington world." 

" By-the-by," said Johnny, " I came down here with a friend of 
yours, Grace." 

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" A friend of mine % " said Grace. 

'' So he says, and he is at Allington at this moment. He passed me 
in a gig going there." 

** And what is his name 1 " Lily asked. 

• " I have not the remotest idea," said Johnny. " He is a man about 
my own age, very good-looking, and apparently very well able to take 
care of himself. He is short-sighted, and holds a glass in one eye 
when he looks out of a carriage-window. That's all that I know about 

Grace Crawley's face had become suffused with blushes at the first 
mention of the friend and the gig ; but then Grace blushed very easUy. 
Lily knew all about it at once, — at once divined who must be the 
friend in the gig, and was almost beside herself with joy. Lady Julia, 
who had heard no more of the major than had Johnny, was still clever 
enough to perceive that the friend must be a particular friend, — ^f or she 
had noticed Miss Crawley's blushes. And Grace herself had no doubt 
as to the man. The picture of her lover, with the glass in his eye 
as he looked out of the window, had been too perfect to admit of a 
doubt. In her distress she put out her hand and took hold of Lily's 

" And you say he is at Allington now? " said LQy. 

" I have no doubt he is at the Small House at this moment," said 



Major Grantly drove his gig into the yard of the " Red Lion " at 
Allington, and from thence walked away at once to Mrs. Dale's house. 
When he reached the village he had hardly made up his mind as to 
the way in which he would begin his attack ; but now, as he went 
down the street, he resolved that he would first ask for Mrs. Dale. 

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Most probably he would find himself in the presence of Mrs. Dale and 
her daughter, and of Grace also, at his first entrance ; and if so, his 
position would be awkward enough. He almost regretted now that he 
had not written to Mrs. Dale, and asked for an interview. His task 
would be very difficult if he should find all the ladies together. But 
he was strong in the feeling that when his purpose was told it would 
meet the approval at any rate of Mrs. Dale ; and he walked boldly on. 
and bravely knocked at the door of the Small House, as he had already 
learned that Mrs. Dale's residence was called by all the neighbourhood. 
Nobody was at home, the servant said ; and then, when the visitor 
began to make further inquiry, the girl explained that the two young 
ladies had walked as far as Guestwick Cottage, and that Mrs. Dale 
was at this moment at the Great House with the squire. She had 
gone across soon after the young ladies had started. The maid, how- 
ever, was interrupted before she had finished telling all this to the 
major, by finding her mistress behind her in the passage. Mrs. Dale 
had returned, and had entered the house from the lawn. 

" I am here now, Jane," said Mrs. Dale, " if the gentleman wishes 
to see me." 

Then the major announced himself. " My name is Major Grantly,*' 
said he ; and he was blundering en with some words about his own 
intrusion, when Mrs. Dale begged him to follow her into the drawing- 
room. He had muttered something to the effect that Mrs. Dale 
would not know who he was ; but Mrs. Dale knew all about him, and 
had heard the whole of Grace's story from Lily. She and Lily had 
often discussed the question whether, under existing circumstances. 
Major Grantly should feel himself bound to offer his hand to Grace, 
and the mother and daughter had differed somewhat on the matter. 
Mrs. Dale had held that he was not so bound, urging that the un- 
fortunate position in which Mr. Crawley was placed was so calamitous 
to all connected with him, as to justify any man, not absolutely 
engaged, in abandoning the thoughts of such a marriage. Mrs. Dale 
had spoken of Major Grantly 's father and mother and brother and 
sister, and had declared her opinion that they were entitled to con- 
sideration. But Lily had opposed this idea very stoutly, asserting that 
in an affair of love a man should think neither of father or brother or 
mother or sister. " If he is worth anything," Lily had said, ** he will 
come to her now, — ^now in her trouble ; and will tell her that she 

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at least has got a friend who will he true to her. If he does that, 
then I shall think that there is something of the poetry and nobleness 
of love left." In answer to this Mrs. Dale had replied that women 
had no right to expect from men such self-denying nobility as that. 
" I don't expect it, mamma," said Lily. " And I am sure that Grace 
does not. Indeed I am quite sure that Grace does not expect 
even to see him ever again. She never says so, but I know that 
she has made up her mind about it. Still I think he ought to 
come." "It can hardly be that a man is bound to do a thing, 
the doing of which, as you confess, would be almost more than 
noble," said Mrs. Dale. And so the matter had been discussed 
between them. But now, as it seemed to Mrs. Dale, the man had 
come to do this noble thing. A^ any rate he was there in her 
drawing-room, and before either of them had sat down he had 
contrived to mention Grace. " You may not probably have heard my 
name," he said, "but I am acquainted with your friend. Miss 

" I know your name very well. Major Grantly. My brother-in-law 
who lives over yonder, Mr. Dale, knows your father very well, — or he 
did some years ago. And I have heard him say that he remembers 

" I recollect. He used to be staying at UUathome. But that is a 
long time ago. Is he at home now ] " 

" Mr. Dale is almost always at home. He very rarely goes away, 
and I am sure would be glad to see you." 

Then there was a little pause in the conversation. They had 
managed to seat themselves, and Mrs. Dale had said enough to put 
her visitor fairly at his ease. If he had anything special to say to her, 
he must say it ; — any request or proposition to make as to Grace Crawley, 
he must make it. And he did make it at once. " My object in coming 
to Allington,'* he said, " was to see Miss Crawley." 

" She and my daughter have taken a long walk to call on a friend, 
and I am afraid they will stay for lunch ; but they will certainly be 
home between three and four, if that is not too long for you to remain 
at Allington." 

" dear, no," said he. " It will not hurt me to wait." 

" It certainly wiU not hurt me, Major Grantly. Perhaps you will 
lunch with me ] " 

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" m tell you what, Mrs. Dale ; if you'll permit me, I'll explain to 
you why I have come' here. Indeed, I have intended to do so all 
through, and I can only ask you to keep my secret, if after all it should 
require to he kept." 

" I will certainly keep any secret that you may ask me to keep," 
said Mrs. Dale, taking off her honnet. 

" I hope there may he no need of one," said Major Grantly. " The 
truth is, Mrs. Dale, that I have known Miss Crawley for some time, — 
nearly for two years now, and, — I may as well speak it out at once, — 
I have made up my mind to ask her to he my wife. That is why I 
am here." Considering the nature of the statement, which must have 
heen emharrassing, I think that it was made with fluency and 

" Of course. Major Grantly, you know that I have no authority with 
our young friend," said Mrs. Dale. " I mean that she is not connected 
with us hy family ties. She has a father and mother, living, as I 
helieve, in the same county with yourself." 

" I know that, Mrs. Dale." 

"And you may, perhaps, understand that, as Miss Crawley is now 
staying with me, I owe it in a measure to her friends to ask you 
whether they are aware of your intention." 

" They are not aware of it." 

" I know that at the present moment they are iii great trouhle." 

Mrs. Dale was going on, hut she was interrupted hy Major Grantly. 

*^ That is just it," he said. " There are circumstances at present 
which make it almost impossible that I should go to Mr. Crawley and 
ask his permission to address his daughter. I do not know whethei 
you have heard the whole story ] " 

" As much, I helieve, as Grace could tell me." 

" He is, I helieve, in such a state of mental distress as to he hardly 
capable of giving me a considerate answer. And I should not know 
how to speak to him, or how not to speak to him, about this unfortunate 
affair. But, Mrs. Dale, you will, I think, perceive that the same 
circumstances make it imperative upon me to be explicit to Miss 
Crawley. I think I am the last man to boast of a woman's regard, but 
I had learned to think that I was not indifferent to Grace. If that be 
so, what must she think of me if I stay away from her now 1 " 

" She understands too well the weight of the misfortune which has 

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fallen upon her father to suppose that any one not connected with her 
can be bound to share it." 

" That is just it. She will think that I am silent for that reason. 
I have determined that that shall not keep me silent, and, therefore, I 
have come here. I may, perhaps, be able to bring comfort to her in 
her trouble. As regards my worldly position, — though, indeed, it will 
not be very good, — ^as hers is not good either, you will not think your- 
self bound to forbid me to see her on that head." 

" Certainly not. I need hardly say that I fully understand that, as 
regards money, you are ofifering everything where you can get nothing." 
" And you understand my feeling ] " 

"Indeed I do, — and appreciate the great nobility of your love foi 
Grace. You shall see her here, if you wish it, — and to-day if you 
choose to wait." Major Grantly said that he would wait and would 
see Grace on that afternoon. Mrs. Dale again suggested that he should 
lunch with her, but this he declined. She then proposed that he 
should go across and call upon the squire, and thus consume his time. 
But to this he also objected. He was not exactly in the humour, he 
said, to renew so old and so slight an acquaintance at that time. Mr. 
Dale .would probably have forgotten him, and would be sure to ask 
what had brought him to Allington. He would go and take a walk, he 
said, and come again exactly at four. Mrs. Dale again expressed her 
certainty that the young ladies would be back by that time, and Major 
Grantly left the house. 

Mrs. Dale when she was left alone could not but compare the good 
fortune which was awaiting Grace, with the evil fortune which had 
fallen on her own child. Here was a man who was at all points a 
gentleman. Such, at least, was the character which Mrs. Dale at once 
conceded to him. And Grace had chanced to come across this man, 
and to please his eye, and satisfy his taste, and be loved by him. 
And the result of that chance would be that Grace would have eveiy- 
thing given to her that the world has to give worth acceptance. She 
would have a companion for her life whom she could trust, admire, 
love, and of whom she could* be infinitely proud. Mrs. Dale was not 
at all aware whether Major Grantly might have five hundred a year to 
spend, or five thousand, — or what sum intermediate between the two, 
— ^nor did she give much of her thoughts at the moment to that side of 
the subject. She knew without thinking of it, — or fancied that she 

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knew, that there were means sufficient for comfortable living. It was 
solely the nature and character of the man that was in her mind, and 
the sufficiency that was to be found in them for a wife's happiness. 
But her daughter, her Lily, had come across a man who was a scoundrel, 
and, as the consequence of that meeting, all her life was marred \ 
Could any credit be given to Grace for her success, or any blame 
attached to Lily for her failure 1 Surely not the latter ! How was her 
girl to have guarded herself from a love so unfortunate, or have avoided 
the rock on which her vessel had been shipwrecked 1 Then many 
bitter thoughts passed through Mrs. Dale's mind, and she almost envied 
Grace Crawley her lover. Lily was contented to remain as she was, 
but Lily's mother could not bring herself to be satisfied that her child 
should fill a lower place in the world than other girls. It had ever been 
her idea, — an idea probably never absolutely uttered even to herself, 
but not the less practically conceived, — that it is the business of a 
woman to be married. That her Lily should have been won and not 
worn, had been, and would be, a trouble to her for ever. 

Major Grantly went back to the inn and saw his horse fed, and smoked 
a cigar, and then, finding that it was stiU only just one o'clock, he 
started for a walk. He was careful not to go out of Allington by tht 
road he had entered it, as he had no wish to encounter Grace and her 
friend on their return into the village ; so he crossed a little brook which 
runs at the bottom of the hill on which the chief street of Allington is 
built, and turned into a field-path to the left as soon as he had got be- 
yond the houses. Not knowing the geography of the place he did not 
understand that by taking that path he was making his way back to 
the squire's house ; but it was so ; and after sauntering on for about a 
mile and crossing back again over the stream, of which he took no notice, 
he found himself leaning across a gate, and looking into a paddock on 
the other side of which was the high wall of a gentleman's garden. To 
avoid this he went on a little further and found himself on a farm road, 
and before he could retrace his steps so as not to be seen, he met a 
gentleman whom lie presumed to be the owner of the house. It was 
the squire surveying his home farm, as wa^ his daily custom ; but Major 
Gralntly had not perceived that the house must of necessity be Alling- 
ton House, having been aware that he had passed the entrance to the 
place, as he entered the village on the other side. " I'm afraid Pm 

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intruding," he said, lifting his hat. " I came up the path yonder, not 
knowing that it would lead me so close to a gentleman's house. 

"There is a right of way through the fields on to the Guestwick road," 
said the squire, " and therefore you are not trespassing in any sense ; 
hut we are not particular ahout such things down here, and you would 
he very welcome if there were no right of way. If you are a stranger, 
perhaps you would like to see the outside of the old house. People 
think it picturesque." 

Then Major Grantly hecame aware that this must he the squire, and 
he was annoyed with himself for his own awkwardness in having thus 
come upon the house. He would have wished to keep himself altogether 
unseen if it had heen possible, — and especially unseen by this old 
gentleman, to whom, now that he had met him, he was almost hound 
to introduce himself. But he was not absolutely bound to do so, and 
he determined that he would still keep his peace. Even if the squire 
should afterwards hear of his having been there, what would it matter 1 
But to proclaim himself at the present moment would be disagreeable to 
him. He permitted the squire, however, to lead him to the front of the 
house, and in a few moments was standing on the terrace hearing an 
account of the architecture of the mansion. 

" You can see the date still in the brickwork of one of the chimneys, 
— that is, if your eyes are very good you can see it, — 1617. It was 
completed in that year, and very little has been done to it since. We 
think the chimneys are pretty," 

**They are very pretty," said the major. "Indeed, the house 
altogether is as graceful as it can be." 

** Those trees are old, too," said the squire, pointing to two cedars 
which stood at the side of the house. " They say they are older than 
the house, but I don't feel sure of it. There was a mansion here before, 
very nearly, though not quite, on the same spot." 

** Your own ancestors were living here before thfirt;, I suppose 1 " said 
Grantly, meaning to be civiL 

" Well, yes ; two or three hundred years before it, I suppose. If 
you don't mind coming down to the churchyard, you'll get an excellent 
view of the house ; — by far the best that there is. By-the-by, would 
you like to step in and take a glass of wine 1 " 

'^I'm very much obliged," said the major, "but indeed I'd rather 

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not." Then he followed the squire down to the churchyard, and was 
shown the church as well as the view of the house, and the vicarage, 
and a view over to AUington woods from the vicarage gate, of which 
the squire was very fond, and in this way he was taken back on to the 
Guestwick side of the village, and even down on to the road by 
which he had entered it, without in the least knowing where he was. 
He looked at his watch and saw that it was past two. " I'm very much 
obliged to you, sir," he said, again taking off his hat to the squire, 
" and if I shall not be intruding I'll make my way back to the village." 

" What village t " said the squire. 

" To AUington," said Grantly. 

" This is Allington," said the squire ; and as he spoke, Lily Dale 
and Grace Crawley turned a corner from the Guestwick road and came 
close upon them. " Well, girls, I did not expect to see you," said 
the squire ; " your mamma told me you wouldn't be back tiU it was 
nearly dark, Lily." 

" We have come back earlier than we intended," said Lily. She of 
course had seen the stranger with her uncle, and knowing the ways of 
the squire in such matters had expected to be introduced to him. 
But the reader will be aware that no introduction was possible. It 
never occurred to Lily that this man could be the Major Grantly of 
whom she and Grace had been talking during the whole length of the 
walk home. But Grace and her lover had of course kno>7n each other 
at once, and Grantly, though he was abashed and almost dismayed by 
the meeting, of course came forward and gave his hand to his friend. 
Grace in taking it did not utter a word. 

"Perhaps I ought to have introduced myself to you as Major 
Grantly ] " said he, turning to the squire. 

" Major Grantly ! Dear me ! I had no idea that you were expected 
in these parts." 

" I have come without being expected." 

" You are very welcome, I'm sure. I hope your father is well % I 
used to know him some years ago, and I daresay he has not forgotten 
me." Then, while the girls stood by in silence, and while Grantly 
was endeavouring to escape, the squire invited him very warmly to send 
his portmanteau up to the house. We'll have the ladies up from the 
house below, and make it as little dull for you as possible." But tliia 
would not have suited Grantly, — at any rate would not suit him till lie 

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should know what answer he was to have. He excused himself 
tlierefore, pleading a positive necessity to he at Guestwick that evening, 
and then, explaining that he had already seen Mrs. Dale, he expressed 
his intention of going hack to the Small House in company with 
the ladies, if they would allow him. The squire, who did not as 
yet quite understand it all, bade him a formal adieu, and Lily led the 
way home down behind the churchyard wall and through the bottom 
of the gardens belonging to the Great House. She of course knew now 
who the stranger was, and did all in her power to relieve Grace of her 
embarrassment. Grace had hitherto not spoken a single word since she 
had seen her lover, nor did she say a word to him in their walk to the 
house. And, in truth, he was not much more communicative than 
Grace. Lily did all the talking, and with wonderful female skill 
contrived to have some words ready for use till they all found themselves 
together in Mrs. Dale's drawing-room. " I have caught a major, 
mamma, and landed him," said Lily laughing ; " but I'm afraid, from 
what I hear, that you had caught him first." 



Lady Julia De Guest always lunched at one exactly, and it was 
not much past twelve when John Eames made his appearance at the 
cottage. He was of course told to stay, and of course said that he 
would stay. It had been his purpose to lunch with Lady Julia ; but 
then he had not expected to find Lily Dale at the cottage. Lily 
herseK would have been quite at her ease, protected by Lady Julia, 
and somewhat protected also by her own powers of fence, had it not 
been that Grace was there also. But Grace Crawley, from the moment 
that she had heard the description of the gentleman who looked out 

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of the window with his glass in his eye, had by no means been at her 
ease. Lily saw at once that she could not be brought to join in any 
conversation, and both John and Lady Julia, in their ignorance of the 
matter in hand, made matters worse. 

" So that was Major Grantly 1 " said John. " I have heard of him 
before, I think. He is a son of the old archdeacon, is he not % " 

"I don't know about old archdeacon," said Lady Julia. "The 
archdeacon is the son of the old bishop, whom I remember very ^w^lL 
And it is not so very long since the bishop died either." 

" I wonder what he's doing at Allington ? ** said Johnny. 

" I think he knows my uncle," said Lily. 

" But he's going to call on your mother," he said. Then Johnny 
remembered that the major had said something as to knowing Miss 
Crawley, and for the moment he was silent. 

" I remember when they talked 'of making the son a bishop also," 
said Lady Julia. 

" What ; — this same man who is now a majo.r?" said Johnny. 

" No, you goose. He is not the son ; he is the grandson. They were 
going to make the archdeacon a bishop, and I remember hearing that 
he was terribly disappointed. He is getting to be an old man now, I 
suppose ; and yet, dear me, how well I remember his father." 

"He didn't look like a bishop's son," said Johnny. 

" How does a bishop's son look ? " Lily asked. 

" I suppose he ought to have some sort of clerical tinge about him ; 
but this fellow had nothing of that kind." 

^*But then this fellow, as you call him," said Lily, "is only the son 
of an archdeacon." 

" That accounts for it, I suppose," said Johnny. 

But during all this time Grace did not say a word, and Lily perceived 
it. Then she bethought herself as to what she had better do. Grace, 
she knew, could not be comfortable where she was. l^or, indeed, was 
it probable that Grace would be very comfortable in returning home. 
There could not be much ease for Grace till the coming meeting between 
her and Major Grantly should be over. But it would be better that 
Grace should go back to Allington at once ; and better also, perhaps, 
for Major Grantly that it should be so. " Lady Julia," she said, " I 
don't think we'll mind stopping for lunch to-day." 

" Nonsense, my dear ; you promised." 

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*' I think we must break our promise ; I do indeed. . You mustn't 
be angry with us." And Lily looked at Lady Julia, as though there 
were something which Lady Julia ought to understand, which she, 
Lily, could not quite explain. I fear that Lily was false, and intended 
her old friend to believe that she was running away because John 
Eames had come there. 

" But you will be famished," said Lady Julia, 

" We shall live through it," said Lily. 

" It is out of the question that I should let you walk all the way 
here from Allington and all the way back without taking something." 

" "We shall just be home in time for lunch if we go now," said Lily. 
" WiU not that be best, Grace ] " 

Grace hardly knew what would be best. She only knew that Major 
Grantly was at Allington, and that he had come thither to see her. 
The idea of hurrying back after him was unpleasant to her, and yet 
she was so flurried that she felt thankful to Lily for taking her away 
from the cottage. The matter was compromised at last. They remained 
for half an hour, and ate some biscuits, and pretended to drink a glass 
of wine, and then they started. John Eames, who in truth believed 
that Lily Dale was running away from him, was by no means well 
pleased, and when the girls were gone, did not make himself so 
agreeable to his old friend as he should have done. " What a fool I 
am to come here at all," he said, throwing himself into an arm-chair 
as soon as the front door was closed. 

" That's very civil to me, John ! *' 

" You know what I mean, Lady Julia. I am a fool to come near 
her, until I can do so without thinking more of her than I do of any 
other girl in the county." 

"I don't think you have anything to complain of as yet," said 
Lady Julia, who had in some sort perceived that Lily^s retreat had 
been on. Grace's account, and not on her own. " It seems to me that 
Lily was very glad to see you, and when I told her that you were 
coming to stay here, and would be near them for some days, she 
seemed to be quite pleased, — she did indeed." 

"Then why did she run away the moment I came inl" said 

" I think it was something you said about that man who has gone 
to AUington." 

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"What difference can the man make to her? The truth is, I 
despise myself, — I do indeed, Lady Julia. Only think of my meeting 
Crosbie at dinner the other day, and his having the impertinence to 
come up and shake hands with me." 

'*! suppose he didn't say anything about what happened at the 
Paddington Station]" 

**JS"o; he didn't speak about that. I wish I knew whether she 
cares for him still. If I thought she did, I would never speak 
another word to her, — I mean about myself. Of course I am not 
going to quarrel with them. I am not such a fool as that." Then 
Lady Julia tried to comfort him, and succeeded so far that he was 
induced to eat the mince veal that had been intended for the comfort 
and support of the two young ladies who had run away. 

** Do you think it is he 1 " were the first words which Grace said 
when they were fairly on their way back together. 

** Of course it is he ; — did you not hear what they said ] " 

^' His coming was so unlikely. I cannot understand that he should 
come. He let m^ leave Silverbridge without seeing me, — and I 
thought that he was quite right." 

" And I think he is quite right to come here. I am very glad he 
has come. It shows that he has really something like a heart inside 
him. Had he not come, or sent, or written, or taken some step before 
the trial comes on to make you know that he was thinking of you, I 
should have said that he was as hard, — as hard as any other man that 
I ever heard of. Men are so hard ! But I don't think he is, now. 
I am beginning to regard him as the one chevalier sans peur et sans 
reprochey and to fancy that you ought to go down on your knees before 
him, and kiss his highness's shoe buckle. In judging of men one's mind 
vacillates so quickly between the scorn which is due to a false man 
and the worship which is due to a true man." Then she was silent 
for a moment, but Grace said nothing, and Lily continued, " I tell you 
fairly, Grace, that I shall expect very much from you now." 

" Much in what way, Lily ] " 

" In the way of worship. I shall not be content that you should 
merely love him. If he has come here, as he must have done, to say 
that the moment of the world's reproach is the moment he has chosen 
to ask you to be his wife, I thiuk that you will owe him more than 

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" I shall owe him more than love, and I will pay him more than 
love," said Grace. There was something in the tone of her voice as 
she spoke which made Lily stop her and look up into her face. There 
was a smile there which Lily had never seen before, and which gave 
a beauty to her which was wonderful to Lily's eyes. Surely this lover 
of Grace's must have seen her smile like that, and therefore had loved 
her and was giving such wonderful proof of his love. ** Yes," continued 
Grace, standing and looking at her friend, " you may stare at me, Lily, 
but you may be sure that I will do for Major Grantly all the good that 
I can do for him." 

" What do you mean, Grace ] " 

" l^"ever mind what I mean. You are very imperious in managing 
your own affairs, and you must let me be so equally in mine." 

" But I teU you everything." 

** Do you suppose that if — if —if in real truth it can possibly be the 
case that Major Grantly shall have come here to offer me his hand when 
we are all ground down into the dust as we are, do you think that I 
will let him sacrifice himself 1 Would you ? " 

'* Certainly. Why not ] There will be no sacrifice. He will be 
asking for that which he wishes to get ; and you will be bound to give 
it to him." 

" If he wants it, where is his nobility 1 If it be as you say, he will 
have shown himself noble, and his nobility will have consisted in this, 
that he has been willing to take that which he does not want, in order 
that he may succour one whom he loves. I also will succour one whom 
I love as best I know how." Then she walked on quickly before her 
friend, and Lily stood for a moment thinking before she followed her. 
They were now on a field-path, by which they were enabled to escape 
the road back to AUington for the greater part of the distance, and 
Grace had reached a stile, and had clambered over it before Lily had 
caught her. 

** You must not go away by yourself," said lily. 

" I don't wish to go away by myself." 

" I want you to stop a moment and listen to me. I am sure you are 
wrong in this, — wrong for both your sakes. You believe that he loves 

** I thought he did once ; and if he has come here to see me, I 
suppose he does still." 

VOL. I. T 

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" If that be the case, and if you also love him " 

" I do. I make no mystery about that to you. I do love Him with 
all my heart. I love him to-day, now that I believe him to be here, 
and that I suppose I shall see him, perhaps this very afternoon. And 
I loved him yesterday, when I thought that I should never see him 
again. I do love him. I do. I love him so well that I will never do 
him an injury." 

" That being so, if he makes you an offer you are boimd to accept it. 
I do not think that you have an alternative." 

" I have an alternative, and I shaU use it. Why don't you take my 
cousin John % " 

" Because I like somebody else better. If you have got as good a 
reason I won't say another word to you." 

" And why don't you take that other person 1 " 

" Because I cannot trust his love ; that is why. It is not very kind 
of you, opening my sores a&esh, when I am trying to heal yours." 

" Oh, Lily, am I unkind, — ^unkind to you, who have been so generous 

" I'll forgive you all that and a deal more if you will only listen to 
me and try to take my advice. Because this major of yours does a 
generous thing which is for the good of you both, — the infinite good 
of both of you, — you are to emulate his generosity by doing a thing 
which will be for the good of neither of you. That is about it Yes, 
it is, Grace. You cannot doubt that he has been meaning this for 
some time past ; and, of course, if he ^ooks upon you as his own, — 
and I daresay, if the whole truth is to be told, he does ^ 

" But I am not his own." 

'^ Yes, you are, in one sense ; you have just said so with a great deal 
of energy. And if it be so, — ^let me see, where was I ? " 

** Oh, Idly, you need not mind where you were." 

'' But I do mind, and I hate to be interrupted in my arguments. Yes, 
just that. If he saw his cow sick, he'd try to doctor the cow in her 
sickness. He sees that you are sick, and of course he comes to your 

" I am not Major Grantly's cow." 

" Yes, you are." 

" Nor his dog, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor anything that is his, except 
— except, Lily, the dearest friend that he has on the face of the earth. 

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He cannot have a friend that will go further for him than I will. He 
will never know how far I will go to serve him. You don't know his 
people. Nor do I know them. But I know what they are. His sister 
is married to a marquis." 

" What has that to do with it % ** said Lily sharply. " If she were 
married to an archduke, what difference would that make % " 

**They are proud people, — all of them, — and rich; and they live 
with high persons in the world." 

" I didn't care though they lived with the royal family, and had the 
Prince of Wales for their bosom friend. It only shows how much 
better ho is than they are." 

" But think what my family is, — ^how we are situated ! When my 
father was simply poor I did not care about it, because he has been 
bom and bred a gentleman. But now he is disgraced. Yes, Lily, he 
is. I am bound to say so, at any rate to myself, when I am thinking 
of Major Grantly ; and I will not carry that disgrace into a family 
which would feel it so keenly as they would do." Lily, however, went 
on with her arguments, and was still arguing when they turned the 
comer of the lane, and came upon Lily's uncle and the major himself. 



In going down from the church to the Small House Lily Dale had all 
the conversation to herself. During some portion of the way the path 
was only broad enough for two persons, and here Major Grantly walked 
by Lily's side, while Grace followed them. Then they found their way 
into the house, and Lily made her little speech to her mother about 
catching the major. " Yes, my dear, I have seen Major Grantly before," 
said Mrs. Dale. " I suppose he has met you on the road. But I did 

T 2 

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not expect that any of you would have returned so soon." Some little 
explanation followed as to the squire, and as to Major Grantl/s walk, 
and after that the great thing was to leave the two lovers alone. " You 
will dine here, of course, Major Grantly," Mrs. Dale said. But this he 
declined. He had learned, he said, that there was a night-train up to 
London, and he thought that he would return to town hy that. He 
had intended, when he left London, to get back as soon as possible. 
Then Mrs. Dale, having hesitated for two or three seconds, got up and 
left the room, and Lily followed. " It seems very odd and abrupt," 
i^aid Mrs. Dale to her daughter, " but I suppose it is best." " Of coarse, 
it is best, mamma. Do as one would be done by ; — that's the only rule. 
It will be much better for her that she should havB it over." 

Grace was seated on a sofa, and Major Grantly got up from his chair, 
and came and stood opposite to her. " Grace," he said, " I hope you 
are not angry with me for coming down to see you here." 

" No, I am not angry," she said. 

"I have thought a great deal about it, and your friend. Miss 
Prettyman, knew that I was coming. She quite approves of my 

" She has written to me, but did not tell me of it," said Grace, not 
knowing what other answer to make. 

" JS"o, — she could not have done that. She had no authority. I 
only mention her name because it will have weight with you, and 
because I have not done that which, under other circumstances, perhaps, 
I should have beeu bound to do. I have not seen your father." 

" Poor papa," said Grace. 

" I have felt that at the present moment I could not do so with any 
success. It has not come of any want of respect either for him or for 
you. Of course, Grace, you know why I am here ] " He paused, and, 
then remembering that he had no right to expect an answer to such a 
question, he continued, " I have come here, dearest Grace, to ask you 
to be my wife, and to be a mother to Edith. I know that you love 

"I do indeed." 

" And I have hoped sometimes, — though I suppose I ought not to 
say so, -but I have hoped and almost thought sometimes, that you 
have been willing to — to love me, too. It is better to tell the truth 
simply, is it not ? " 

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" I suppose so," said Grace. 

"And theifefore, and because I love you dearly myself, I have come 
to ask you to be my wife." Saying which he opened out his hand, 
and held it to her. But she did not take it. " There is my hand, 
Grace, If your heart is as I would have it you can give me yours, and 
I shall want nothing else to make me happy." But still she made no 
motion towards granting him his request. ** If I have been too sudden," 
he said, " you must forgive me for that. I have been sudden and 
abrupt, but as things are, no other way has been open to me. Can 
you not bring yourself to give me some answer, Grace ] " His hand 
had now fallen again to his side, but he was still standing before her. 

She had said no word to him as yet, except that one in which she 
had acknowledged her love for his child, and had expressed no surprise, 
even in her countenance, at his proposal. And yet the idea that he 
should do such a thing, since the idea that he certainly would do it 
had become clear to her, had filled her with a world of surprise. "No 
girl ever lived with any beauty belonging to her who had a smaller 
knowledge of her own possession than Grace Crawley. Nor had she 
the slightest pride in her own acquirements. That she had been taught 
in many things more than had been taught to other girls, had come of 
her poverty and of the desolation of her home. She had learned to 
read Greek and Italian because there had been nothing else for her to do 
in that sad house. And, subsequently, accuracy of knowledge had been 
necessary for the earning of her bread. I think that Grace had at times 
been weak enough to envy the idleness and almost to envy the ignorance 
of other girls. Her figure was light, perfect in symmetry, full of grace at 
all points ; but she had thought nothing of her figure, remembering only 
the poverty of her dress, but remembering also with a brave resolution 
that she would never be ashamed of it. And as her acquaintance with 
Major Orantly had begun and had grown, and as slie had learned to feel 
unconsciously that his company was plestsanter to her than that of any 
other person she knew, she had stiU told herself that anything like 
love must be out of the question. But then words had been spoken, 
and there had been glances in his eye, and a tone in his voice, and a 
touch upon his fingers, of which she could not altogether refuse to 
accept the meaning. And others had spoken to her of it, the two Miss 
p*rettynians and her friend Lily. Yet she would not admit to herself 
that it could be so, and she would not allow herself to confess to herself 

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that she loved him. Tlien had come the last killing misery to which 
her father had been subjected. He had been accused of stealing 
money, and had been committed to be tried for the theft. From that 
moment, at any rate, any hope, if there had been a hope, must be 
crushed. But she swore to herself bravely that there had been no such 
hope. And she assured herself also that nothing had passed which 
had entitled her to expect anything beyond ordinary friendship from 
the man of whom she certainly had thought much. Even if those 
touches and those tones and those glances had meant anything, all such 
meaning must be annihilated by this disgrace which had come upon 
her. She might know that her father was innocent ; she might be 
sure, at any rate, that he had been innocent in intention; but the 
world thought differently, and she, her brothers and sister, and her 
mother and her poor father, must bend to the world's opinion. If 
those dangerous joys had meant anything, they must be taken as 
meaning nothing more. 

Thus she had argued with herself, and fortified by such self-teachings, 
she had come down to Allington. Since she had been with her friends 
there had come upon her from day to day a clear conviction that her 
arguments had been undoubtedly true, — ^a clear conviction which had 
been very cold to her heart in spite of all her courage. She had 
expected nothing, hoped for nothing, and yet when nothing came she 
was sad. She thought of one special half-hour in which he had said 
almost all that he might have said, — more than he ought to have said ; 
— of a moment during which her hand had remained in his ; of a 
certain pressure with which he had put her shawl upon her shoulders. 
If he had only written to her one word to tell her that he believed her 
father was innocent ! But no ; she had no right to expect anything 
fh>m him. And then Lily had ceased to talk of him, and she did 
expect nothing. Now he was there before her, asking her to come to 
him and be his wife. Yes ; she would kiss his shoebuckles, only that 
the kissing of his shoebuckles would bring upon him that injury which 
he should never suffer from her hands ! He had been generous, and 
her self-pride was satisfied. But her other pride was touched, and she 
also would be generous. '* Can you not bring yourself to give me some 
answer 1 " he had said to her. Of course she must give him an answer, 
but how should she give it 1 

" You are very kind," she said. 

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** I would be more than kind." 
. " So you are. Kind is a cold word when used to such a friend at 
such a time." 

" I would be everything on earth to you that a man can be to a 

" I know I ought to thank you if I knew how. My heart is full 
of thanks. It is, indeed." 

" And is there no room for love there t " 

" There is no room for love in our house, Major Grantly. You have 
not seen papa V , 

** No ; but, if you wish it, I will do so at once." 

" It would do no good, — none. I only asked you because you can 
hardly know how sad is our state at home." 

" But I cannot see that that need deter you, if you can love me." 

** Can you not ? If you saw him, and the house, and my mother, 
you would not say so. In the Bible it is said of some season that it 
is not a time for marrying, or for giving in marriage. And so it is 
with us." 

" I am not pressing you as to a day. I only ask you to say that you 
will be engaged to me, — so that I may tell my own people, and let it 
be known." 

" I understand all that. I know how good you are. But, Major 
Grantly, you must understand me also when I assure you that it cannot 
be so." • 

'^ Do you mean that you refuse me altogether 1 " 

" Yes ; altogether." 

"And why]" 

" Must I answer that question ] Ought I to be made to answer it 1 
But I will tell you fairly, without touching on anything else, that I 
feel that we are all disgraced, and that I will not take disgrace into 
another family." 

" Grace, do you love me 1 " 

" I love no one now, — that is, as you mean. I can love no one. I 
have no room for any feeling except for my father and mother, and 
for us all. I should not be here now but that I save my mother the 
bread that I should eat at home," 


" Yes, it is as bad as that. It is much worse than that, if you knew 

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it alL Tou cannot conceive how low we have fallen. And now they 
tell me that my father will be found guilty, and will be sent to prison. 
Putting ourselves out of the question, what would you think of a girl 
who could engage herself to any man under such circumstances ? Wbat 
would you think of a girl who would allow herself to b" '*n love in such 
a position 1 Had I been ten times engaged to you ^ . ol t ^ve broken 
it off." Then she got up to leave him. 

But he stopped her, holding her by the arm. ""W lat you have 
said will make me say what I certainly should never ha e said without 
it. I declare that we are engaged.*' 

" "No, we are not," said Grace. 

" You have told me that you loved me." 

" I never told you so." 

" There are other ways of speaking than the voice ; and I will boast 
to you, though to no one else, that you have told me so. I beUeve you 
love me. I shall hold myself as engaged to you, and I shall think you 
fjEdse if I hear that you listen to another man. Now, good-bye, Grace ; — 
my own Grace." 

" No, I am not your own," she said, through her tearS: 

" You are my own, my very own. God bless you, dear, dear, dearest 
Grace. You shall hear from me in a day or two, and shall see me as 
soon as this horrid trial is over." Then he took her in his arms before 
she could escape from him, and kissed her forehead and her lips, while 
she struggled in his arms. After that he left the room and the house 
as quickly as he could, and was seen no more of the Dales upon that 

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Grace, when she was left alone, threw herself upon the sofa, and hid 

her face in her hands. She was weeping almost hysterically, and had 

been utterly dismayed and frightened by her lover's impetuosity. Things 

had gone after a fashion which her imagination had not painted to her 

as possible. Surely she had the power to refuse the man if she pleased. 

And yet she felt as she lay there weeping that she did in truth belong 

to him as part of his goods, and that her generosity had heen foiled. 

She had especially resolved that she would not confess to any love for 

him. She had made no such confession. She had guarded herself 

against doing so with all the care which she knew how to use. But 

he had assumed the fact, and she had been unable to deny it. Could 

she have lied to him, and have sworn that she did not love him? 

Could she have so perjured herself, even in support of her generosity 1 

Yes, she would have done so, — so she told herself, — if a moment had 

been given to her for thought. She ought to have done so, and she 

blamed herself for being so little prepared for the occasion. The lie 

would be useless now. Indeed, she would have no opportunity for 

telling it ; for of course she would not answer, — would not even read 

his letter. Though he might know that she loved him, yet she would 

not be his wife. He had forced her secret from her, but he could not 

force her to marry him. She did love him, but he should never be 

disgraced by her love. 

After a while she was able to think of his conduct, and she believed 
that she ought to be very angry with him. He had taken her roughly 
in his arms, and had insulted her. He had forced a kiss from her. 
Sh.e had felt his arms warm and close and strong about her, and had 
not known whether she were in paradise or in purgatory. 'She was very 

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angry with him. She would send back his letter to him without 
reading it, — without opening it, if that might be possible. He had done 
that to her which nothing could justify. But yet, — yet, — ^yet how 
dearly she loved him ! Was he not a prince of men ] He had behaved 
badly of course ; but had any man ever behaved so badly before in so 
divine a way % Was it not a thousand pities that she should be driven 
to deny anything to a lover who so richly deserved everything that 
could be given to him ] He had kissed her hand as he let her go, 
and now, not knowing what she did, she kissed the spot on which she 
had felt his lips. His arm had been round her waist, and the old frock 
which she wore should be kept by her for ever because it had been so 

What was she now to say to Lily and to Lily's mother 1 Of one 
thing there was no doubt. She would never tell them of her lover's 
wicked audacity. That was a secret never to be imparted to any ears. 
She would keep her resentment to herself, and not ask the protection 
of any vicarious wrath. He could never so sin again, that was certain ; 
and she would keep all knowledge and memory of the sin for her own 
purposes. But how could it be that such a man as that, one so good 
though so sinful, so glorious though so great a trespasser, should have 
come to such a girl as her and have asked for her love 1 Then she 
thought of her father's poverty and the misery of her own condition, 
and declared to herself that it was very wonderful. 

Lily was the firet to enter the room, and she, before she did so, 
learned from the servant that Major Grantly had left the house. *• I 
heard the door, miss, and then I saw the top of his hat out of the 
pantry window." Armed with this certain information Lily entered 
the drawdng-room, and found Grace in the act of rising from the sofa. 

" Am I disturbing you % " said Lily. 

" No ; not at alL I am glad you have come. Kiss me, and be good 
to me." And she twined her arms about Lily and embraced her. 

"Am I not always good to you, you simpleton! Has he been 

" I don't know what you mean ? " 

" And have you been good to him 1 " 

" As good as I knew how, Lily." 

" And where is he ] " 

** He has gone away. I shall never see him any more, Lily." Then 

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she hid her face upon her friend's shoulder and broke forth again into 
hysterical tears. 

" But tell me, Grace, what he said ; — that is, if you mean to tell 

"I will tell you everything; — that is, everything I can." And 
Grace blushed as she thought of the one secret which she certainly 
would not telJ. 

" Has he, — has he done what I said he would do 1 Come, speak 
out boldly. Has he asked you to be bis wife ] " 

" Yes," said Grace, barely whispering the word. 

" And you have accepted him 1 " 

" No, Lily, I have not. Indeed, I have not. I did not know how 
to speak, because I was surprised ; — and he, of course, could say what 
he Hked. But I told him as well as I could^ that I would not marry 

" And why ; — did you tell him why % " 

" Yes ; because of papa 1 " 

" Then, if he is the man I take him to be, that answer will go for 
nothing. Of course he knew all that before he came here. He did 
not think you were an heiress with forty thousand pounds. If he is in 
earnest, that wiU go for nothing. And I think he is in earnest." 

" And so was I in earnest." 

" Well, Grace ; — we shall see." 

" I suppose I may have a will of my own, Lily." 

" Do not be so sure of that. Women are not allowed to have wills 
of their own on all occasions. Some man comes in a girl's way, and 
she gets to be fond of him, just because he does come in her way. 
Well ; when that has taken place, she has no alternative but to be 
taken if he chooses to take her ; or to be left, if he chooses to leave 

" LUy, don't say that." 

" But I do say it. A man may assure himself that he will find for 
himself a wife who shall be learned, or beautiful, or six feet high, if 
he wishes it, or who has red hair, or red eyes, or red cheeks, — just 
what he pleases ; and he may go about till he finds it, as you can go 
about and match your worsteds. You are a fool if you buy a colour 
you don't want. But we can never match our worsteds for that other 
piece of work, but are obliged to take any colour that comes, — and 

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therefore it is that we make such a jumble of it I Here's mamma. 
We must not be philosophical before her. Mamma, Major Grantly 
has — skedaddled.'* 

«* Oh, Lily, what a word 1 " 

' But, oh, mamma, what a thing ! Fancy his going away and not 
saying a word to anybody ! " 

" If he had anything to say to Grace, I suppose he said it." 

" He asked her to marry him, of course. We none of us had any 
doubt about that. He swore to her that she and none but she should 
be his wife, — and all that kind of thing. But he seems to have done 
it in the most prosaic way; — and now he has gone away without 
saying a word to any of us. I shall never speak to him again, — unless 
Grace asks me." 

" Grace, my dear, may I congratulate you 1 " said Mrs. Dale. 

Grace did not answer, as Lily was too quick for her. " Oh, she 
has refused him, of course. But Major Grantly is a man of too much 
sense to expect that he should succeed the first time. Let me see ; 
this is the fourteenth. These clocks run fourteen days, and, theref ore, 
you may expect him again about the twenty-eighth. For myself, I 
think you are giving him an immense deal of unnecessary trouble, and 
that if he left you in the lurch it would only serve you right ; but you 
have the world with you, Fm told. A girl is supposed to tell a man 
two fibs before she may tell him one truth." 

" I told him no fib, Lily. I told him that I would not marry him, 
and I will not." 

" But why not, dear Grace 1 " said Mrs. Dale. 

" Because the people say that papa is a thief ! " Having said this, 
Grace walked slowly out of the room, and neither Mrs. Dale nor Lily 
attempted to follow her. 

** She's as good as gold," said Lily, when the door was closed. 

" And he ;— what of him % " 

" I think he is good, too ; but she has told me nothing yet of what 
he has said to her. He must be good, or he would not have come 
down here after her. But I don't wonder at his coming, because she 
is so beautiful ! Once or twice as we were walking back to-day, I 
thought her face was the most lovely that I had ever seen. And did 
you see her just now, as she spoke of her father 1 " 

" Oh, yes ; — I saw her." 

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"Think what she will be in two or three years* time, when she 
becomes a woman. She talks French, and Italian, and Hebrew for 
anything that I know ; and she is perfectly beautiful. I never saw a 
more lovely figure ; — and she has spirit enough for a goddess. I don't 
think that Major Grantly is such a fool after all." 
" I never took him for a fool." 

" I have no doubt all his own people do ; — or they will, when they 
hear of it. But, mamma, she will grow to be big enough to walk 
atop of all the Lady Hartletops in England. It will all come right at 
"You think it wUH" 

" Oh, yes. Why should it not ] If he is worth having, it will ; — 
and I think he is worth having. He must wait till tliis horrid trial 
is over. It is clear to me that Grace thinks that her father will be 

" But he cannot have taken the money." 

" I think he took it, and I think it wasn't his. But I don't think 
he stole it. I don't know whether you can understand the difference.'* 
" I am afraid a jury won't understand it." 

"A jary of men will not. I wish they could put you and me 
on it, mamma. I would take my best boots and eat them down to 
the heels, for Grace's sake, — and for Major Grantly's. What a good^ 
looking man he is i " 
"Yes, he is." 

"And so like a gentleman ! I'll tell you what, mamma; we won't 
say anything to her about him for the present. Her heart will be so 
fuU she will be driven to talk, and we can comfort her better in that 
way." The mother and daughter agreed to act upon these tactics, and 
nothing more was said to Grace about her lover on that evening. 

Major Grantly walked from Mrs. Dale's house to the inn and ordered 
his gig, and drove himself out of Allington, almost without remember- 
ing where he was or whither he was going. He was thinking solely of 
what had just occurred, and of what, on his part, should follow, as the 
result of that meeting. Half at least of the noble deeds done in this 
world are due to emulation, rather than to the native nobility of the 
actors. A young man leads a forlorn hope because another young man 
has offered to do so. Jones in the hunting-field rides at an impracti- 
cable fence because he is told that Smith took it three years ago. And 

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Walker puts Jiis name down for ten guineas at a charitable dinner when 
he hears Thompson's read out for five. And in this case the generosity 
and self-denial shown by Grace warmed and cherished similar virtues 
within her lover's breast. Some few weeks ago Major Grantly had been 
in doubt as to what his duty required of him in reference to Grace 
Crawley j but he had no doubt whatsoever now. In the fervour of his 
admiration he would have gone straight to the archdeacon, had it been 
possible, and have told him what he had done and what he intended to 
do. Nothing now should stop him ; — no consideration, that is, either 
as regarded money or position. He had pledged himself solemnly, and 
he was very glad that he had pledged himself. He would write to 
Grace and explain to her that he trusted altogether in her father's 
honour and innocence, but that no consideration as to that ought to 
influence either him or her in any way. If, independently of her father, 
she could bring herself to come to him and be his wife, she was bound 
to do so now, let the position of her father be what it might. And thus, 
as he drove his gig back towards Guestwick, he composed a very pretty 
letter to the lady of his love. 

And as he went, at the corner of the lane which led from the main 
road up to Guestwick cottage, he again came upon John Eames, who 
was also returning to Guestwick. There had been a few words spoken, 
between Lady Julia and Johnny respecting Major Grantly after the 
girls had left the cottage, and Johnny had been persuaded that the 
strange visitor to Allington could have no connection with his arch- 
enemy. " And why has he come to Allington % " John demanded, some- 
what sternly, of his hostess. 

" Well ; if you ask me, I think he has gone there to see your cousin, 
Grace Crawley." 

" He told me that he knew Grace," said John, looking as though he 
were conscious of his own ingenuity in putting two and two together 
- very cleverly. 

" Your cousin Grace is a very pretty girl," said Lady Julia. 

" It's a long time since I've seen her," said Johnny. 

" Why, you saw her just this minute," said Lady Julia. 

" I didn't look at her," said Johnny. Therefore, when he agftiii met 
Major Grantly, having continued to put two and two together with 
great ingenuity, he felt quite sure that the man had nothing to do with 

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tlje arch-enemy, and he determined to be gracious. "Did you find 
them at home at Alliugton 1 ** he said, raising his hat. 

** How do you do again ? " said the Major. " Yes, I found your friend 
Mrs. Dale at home.** 

"But not her daughter, or my cousin? They were up there ; — ^where 
Tve come from. But, perhaps, they had got back before you left." 
" I saw them both. They found me on the road with Mr. Dale." 
" What, — ^the squire 1 Then you have seen everybody 1" 
" Everybody I wished to see at Allington." 
" But you wouldn't stay at the * Red Lion ' 1 " 
" Well, no. I remembered that I wanted to get back to London ; 
and as I had seen my friends, I thought I might as well hurry away." 
" You knew Mrs. Dale before, then 1 " 

" No, I didn't. I never saw her in my life before. But I knew 
the old squire when I was a boy. However, I should have said a 
fiiend. I went to see one friend, and I saw her." 

John Eames perceived that his companion put a strong emphasis on 
the word " her," as though he were determined to declare boldly that 
he had gone to Allington solely to see Grace Crawley. He had not 
the slightest objection to recognizing in Major Grantly a suitor for his 
cousin's hand. He could only reflect what an unusually fortunate girl 
Grace must be if such a thing could be true. Of those poor Crawleys 
he had only heard from time to time that their misfortunes were as 
numerous as the sands on the sea-shore, and as unsusceptible of any 
fixed and permanent arrangement. But, as regarded Grace, here would 
be a very permanent arrangement. Tidings had reached him that Grace 
was a great scholar, but he had never heard much of her beauty. It 
must probably be the case that Major Grantly was fond of Greek. 
There was, he reminded himself, no accounting for tastes; but as 
nothing could be more respectable than such an alliance, he thought 
that it would become him to be civil to the major. 

" I hope you found her quite weU. I had barely time to speak to 
her mysel£" 

" Yes, she was very well. This is a sad thing about her father." 
* Very sad," said Johnny. Perhaps the major had heard about the 
accusation for the first time to-day, and was going to find an escape 
on that plea. If such was the case, it would not be so well to be 
particularly civlL 

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" I believe Mr. Crawley is a cousin of yoiirs 1 " said the major. 

" His wife is my mother's first-cousin. Their mothers were sisters." 

" She is an excellent woman." 

" I believe sa I don't know much about them myself, — ^that is, 
personally. Of course I have heard of this charge that has been made 
against him. It seems to me to be a great shame." 

" Well, I can't exactly say that it is a shame. I do not know that 
there has been anything done with a feeling of persecution or of 
cruelty. It is a great mystery, and we must have it cleared up if we 
can." \ 

** I don't suppose he can have been guilty," said Johnny. 

" Certainly not in the ordinary sense of the word. I heard all the 
evidence against him." 

"Oh, you did?" 

" Yes," said the major. " I live near them in Barsetshire, and I 
am one of his bailsmen." 

" Then you are an old friend, I suppose % " 

** Not exactly that ; but circumstances make me very much inter- 
ested about them. I fancy that the cheque was left in his house by 
accident, and that it got into his hands he didn't know how, and that 
when he used it he thought it was his." 

" That's queer," said Johnny. 

" He is very odd, you know." 

" But it's a kind of oddity that they don't like at the assizes," 

'* The great cruelty is," said the major, " that whatever may be the 
result, the punishment will fall so heavily upon his wife and daughters. 
I think the whole county ought to come forward and take them by the 
hand. Well, good-bye. I'U drive on, as I'm a little in a hurry." 

" Good-bye," said Johnny. " I'm very glad to have had the pleasure 
of meeting you." " He's a good sort of a fellow after all," he said to 
himself when the gig had passed on. " He wouldn't have talked in 
that way if he had meant to hang back." 

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Mr. Crawley had declared to Mr. Eobarts that he would summon 
no legal aid to his assistance at the coming trial. The reader may, 
perhaps, remember the impetuosity with which he rejected the advice 
on this subject which was conveyed to him by Mr. Eobarts with all 
the authority of Archdeacon Grantly's name. " Tell the archdeacon," 
he had said, " that I will have none of his advice." And then Mr. 
Eobarts had left him, fully convinced that any further interference on 
bis part could be of no avail. Nevertheless, the words which had then 
been spoken were not without effect. This coming trial was ever present 
to Mr. Crawley's mind, and though, when driven to discuss the subject, 
he would speak of it with high spirit, as he had done both to the bishop 
and to Mr. Eobarts, yet in his long hours of privacy, or when alone with 
his wife, his spirit was anything but high. " It will kill me," he would 
say to her. " I shall get salvation thus. Death will relieve me, and 
I shall never be called upon to stand before those cruel eager eyes." 
Then would she try to say words of comfort, sometimes soothing him 
as though he were a child, and at others bidding him be a man, and 
remember that as a man he should have sufficient endurance to bear 
the eyes of any crowd that might be there to look at him. 

" I think I will go up to London," he said to her one evening, very 
soon after the day of Mr. Eobarts's visit. 

" Go up to London, Josiah 1 " Mr. Crawley had not been up to 
London once since they had been settled at Hogglestock, and this 
sudden resolution on his part frightened his wife. " Gro up to London, 
dearest 1 and why % " 

" I will tell you why. They all say that I should speak to some 
man of the law whom I may trust about this coming trial , I trust no 
one in these parts. Not, mark you, that I say that they are untrust- 
VOL. I. u 

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worthy. God forbid that I should so speak or even so think of men 
whom I know not. But the matter has become so common in 
men's mouths at Barchester and at Silverbridge, that I cannot endure 
to go among them and to talk of it. I will go up to London, and 
I will see your cousin, Mr. John Toogood, of Gray's Inn." Now 
in this scheme there was an amount of everyday prudence which 
startled Mrs. Crawley almost as much as did the prospect of the 
difi&culties to be overcome if the journey were to be made. Her 
husband, in the first place, had never once seen Mr. John Toogood ; 
and in days very long back, when he and she were making their first 
gallant struggle, — for in those days it had been gallant, — down in their 
Cornish curacy, — ^he had reprobated certain Toogood civilities, — 
professional civilities, — which had been proffered, perhaps, witli too 
plain an intimation that on the score of relationship the professional 
work should be done without payment. The Mr. Toogood of those 
days, who had been Mrs. Crawley's uncle, and the father of Mrs. Eames, 
and grandfather of our friend Johnny Eames, had been much angered 
by some correspondence which had grown up between him a^d Mr. 
Crawley, and from that day there had been a cessation of all intercourse 
between the families. Since those days that Toogood had been gathered 
to the ancient Toogoods of old, and the son reigned on the family throne 
in Raymond's Buildings. The present Toogpod was therefore first- 
cousin to Mrs. Crawley. But there had been no intimacy between them. 
Mrs. Crawley had not seen her cousin since her marriage, — as indeed 
she had seen none of her relations, having been estranged from them 
by the singular bearing of her husband. She knew that her cousin 
stood high in his profession, the firm of Toogood and Crump, — Crump 
and Toogood it should have been properly called in those days, — having 
always held its head up high above all dirty work ; and she felt that 
her husband could look for advice from no better source. But how 
would such a one as he manage to tell his story to a stranger % iN'ay, 
how would he find his way alone into the lawyer's room, to tell his 
story at all, — ^so strange was he to the world] And then the expense 1 
** If you do not wish me to apply to your cousin, say so, and there shall 
be an end of it," said Mr. Crawley, in an angry tone. 

" Of course I would wish it. I believe him to be an excellent man, 
and a good lawyer." 

" Then why should I not go to his chambers % In formd pauperis I 

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must go to him, and must tell him so. I cannot pay him for the 
labour of his counsel, nor for such minutes of his time as I shall 

" Oh, Josiah, you need not speak of that.'* 

"But I must speak of it. Can I go to a professional man, who 
keeps as it were his shop c^en for those who may think fit to come, 
and purchase of him, and take of his goods, and afterwards, when the 
goodd have been used, tell liim that I have not the price in my hand 1 
I will not do that, Mary. You think that I am mad ; that I know 
not what I do. Yes, — I see it in your eyes ; and you are sometimes 
partly right. But I am not so mad but that I know what is honest. 
I will teU your cousin that I am sore straitened, and brought down 
into the very dust by misfortune. And I will beseech him, for what 
of ancient feeling of family he may bear to you, to listen to me for a 
while. And I will be very short, and, if need be, will bide his time 
patiently, and perhaps he may say a word to me that may be of use." 

There was certainly very much in this to provoke Mrs. Crawley. 
It was not only that she knew well that her cousin would give ample 
and immediate attention, and lend himself thoroughly to the matter 
Without any idea of payment, — but that she could not quit« believe 
that her husband's humility was true humility. She strove to believe 
it, but knew that she failed. After all it was only a feeling on her 
part. There was no argument within herself about it. An unpleasant 
taste came across the palate of her mind, as such a savour will some- 
times, from some unexpected source, come across the palate of the 
mouth. "Well ; she could only gulp at it, and swaUow it and excuse 
it. Among the salad that comes from your garden a bitter leaf will 
now and then make its way into your salad bowl. Alas, there were 
so many bitter leaves ever making their way into her bowl ! " What 
I mean is, Josiah, that no long explanation will be needed. I think, 
from what I remember of him, that he would do for us anything that 
he could do." 

** Then I will go to the man, and will humble myself before him. 
Even that, hard as it is to me, may be a duty that I owe." Mr. 
Crawley as he said this was remembering the fact that he was a clergy- 
man of the Church of England, and that he had a rank of his own in 
the country, which, did he ever do such a thing as go out to dinner in 
company, would establish for him a certain right of precedence; 

u 2 

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whereas this attorney, of whom he was speaking, was, so to say, 
nobody in the eyes of the world. 

" There need be no humbling, Josiah, other than that which is due 
from man to man in all circumstances. But never mind ; we will not 
talk about that. If it seems good to you, go to Mr. Toogood. I 
think that it is good. May I write to him and say that you will go 1 " 

" I will write myself ; it will be more seemly." 

Then the wife paused before she asked the next question, — ^paused 
for some minute or two, and then asked it with anxious doubt, — 
" And may I go with you, Josiah ? " 

"Why should two go when one can do the workl" he answered 
sharply. " Have we money so much at command ? " 

"Indeed, no." 

" You should go and do it all, for you are wiser in these things than 
I am, were it not that I may not dare to show — that I submit myself 
to my wife." 

" Nay, my dear ! " 

" But it is ay, my dear. It is so. This is a thing such as men do ; 
not such as women do, unless they be forlorn and unaided of men. I 
know that I am weak where you are strong ; that I am crazed where 
you are clear-witted." 

" I meant not that, Josiah. It was of your health that I thought." 

"Nevertheless it is as I say. But, for all that, it may not be that 
you should do my work. There are those watching me who would say, 
*Lo! he confesses himself incapable.' And then some one would 
whisper something of a madhouse. Mary, after all I fear that worse 
than a prison." 

" May God in His mercy forbid such cruelty ! " 

" But I must look to it, my dear. Do you think that that woman, 
who sits there at Barchester in high places, disgracing herself and that 
puny ecclesiastical lord who is her husband, — do you think that she 
would not immure me if she could 1 She is a she-wolf, — only less 
reasonable than the dumb brute as she sharpens her teeth in mahce 
coming from anger, and not in malice coming from hunger as d(5 the 
outer wolves of the forest. I tell you, Mary, that if she had a colour- 
able ground for her action, she would swear to-morrow that I am mad." 

" You shall go alone to London." 

" Yes, I will go alone. They shall not say that I cannot yet do my 

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own work as a man should do it. I stood up before him, the puny 
man who is called a bishop, and before her who makes herself great by 
his littleness, and I scorned them both to their faces. Though the 
shoes which I had on were all broken, as I myself could not but see 
when I stood, yet I was greater than they were with all their purple 
and fine linen." 

" But, Josiah, my cousin will not be harsh to you." 

" Well,— and if he be not ? *' 

" Ill-usage you can bear ; and violent iU-usage, such as that which 
Mrs. Proudie allowed herself to exhibit, you can repay with interest ; 
but kindness seems to be too heavy a burden for you." 

" I will struggle. I will endeavour. I will speak but little, and, 
if possible, I will listen much. Now, my dear, I will write to this 
man, and you shall give me the address that is proper for him." Then 
he wrote the letter, not accepting a word in the way of dictation from 
his wife, but "craving the great kindness of a short interview, for 
which he ventured to become a solicitor, urged thereto by his wife's 
assurance that one with whom he was connected by family ties would 
do as much as this for the possible preservation of the honour of the 
family." In answer to this, Mr. Toogood wrote back as follows : — 
" Dear Mr. Crawley, I will be at my office all Thursday morning next 
from ten to two, and will take care that you shan't be kept waiting 
for me above ten minutes. You parsons never like waiting. But 
hadn't you better come and breakfast with me and Maria at ninel 
Then we'd have a talk as we walk to the office. Yours always, Thomas 
Toogood." And the letter was dated from the attorney's private house 
in Tavistock Square. 

" I am sure he means to be kind," said Mrs Crawley. 

" Doubtless he means to be kind. But his kindness is rough ; — I 
will not say unmannerly, as the word would be harsh. I have never 
even seen the lady whom he calls Maria." 

*; She is his wife!" 

" So I would venture to suppose ; but she is unknown to me. I 
will write again, and thank him, and say that I will be with mm at 
ten to the moment." 

There were still many things to be settled before the journey could 
be made. Mr. Crawley, in his first plan, proposed that he should go 
up by night mail train, travelling in the third class, havilig walked 

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over to Silverbridge to meet it ; that he should then walk about London 
from 5 A.M. to 10 a.m., and afterwards come down by an afternoon train 
to which a third class was also attached. But at last his wife persuaded 
him that such a task as that, performed in the middle of the winter, 
would be enough to kill any man, and that, if attempted, it would 
certainly kill him ; and he consented at last to sleep the night in town, 
— being specially moved thereto by discovering that he could, in 
conformity with this scheme, get in and out of the traia at a station 
considerably nearer to him than Silverbridge, and that he could get a 
ticket at a third class fare. The whole journey, he found, could be 
done for a pound, allowing him seven shillings for his night's expenses 
in London ; and out of the resources of the family there were produced 
two sovereigns, so that in the event of accident he would not utterly 
be a castaway from want of funds. 

So he started on his journey after an early dinner, almost hopefnl 
through the new excitement of a journey to London, and his wife 
walked with him nearly as far as the station. " Do not reject my 
cousin's kindness," were the last words she spoke. 

" For his professional kindness, if he will extend it to me, I will be 
most thankful," he replied. She did not dare to say more ; nor had 
she dared to write privately to her cousin, asking for any special help, 
lest by doing so she should seem to impugn the sufficiency and stability 
of her husband's judgment. He got up to town late at night, and 
having made inquiry of one of the porters, he hired a bed for himself 
in the neighbourhood of the railway station. Here he had a cup of tea 
and a morsel of bread-and-butter, and in the morning he breakfasted 
again on the same fare. " No, I have no luggage," he had said to the 
girl at the public-house, who had asked him as to his travelling gear. 
" If luggage be needed as a certificate of respectability, I will pass on 
elsewhere," said he. The girl stared, and assured him that she did not 
doubt his respectability. '* I am a clergyman of the Church of Eng- 
land," he had said, "but my circumstances prevent me from seeking a 
more expensive lodging." They did their best to make him comfortable, 
and, I think, almost disappointed him in not heaping further misfortunes 
on his head. 

He was in Raymond's Buildings at half-past nine, and for half an 
hour walked up and down the umbrageous pavement, — it used to be 

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nmhrageous, but perhaps the trees have gone now, — before the doors 
of the various chambers. He could hear the clock strike from Gray*8 
Inn ; and the moment that it had struck he was turning in, but wad 
encountered in the passage by Mr. Toogood, who was equally punctual 
with himself. Strange stories about Mr. Crawley had reached .Mr. 
Toogood's household, and that Maria, the mention of whose Christian 
name had been so offensive to the clergyman, had begged her husband 
not to be a moment late. Poor Mr. Toogood, who ou ordinary days 
did perhaps take a few minutes' grace, was thus hurried away almost 
with his breakfast in his throat, and, as we have seen, just saved him- 
self. "Perhaps, sir, you are Mr. Crawley?" he said, in a good- 
humoured, cheery voice. He was a good-humoured, cheery-looking man, 
about fifty years of age, with grizzled hair and sunburnt face, and large 
whiskers. Nobody would have taken him to be a partner in any of 
those great houses of which we have read in history, — the Quirk, 
Gammon and Snaps of the profession, or the Dodson and Foggs, who 
are immortal. 

" That is my name, sir," said Mr. Crawley, taking off his hat and 
bowing low, " and I am here by appointment to meet Mr. Toogood, the 
solicitor, whose name I see afl&xed upon the door-post." 

" I am Mr. Toogood, the solicitor, and I hope I see you quite well, 
Mr. Crawley." Then the attorney shook hands with the clergyman 
and preceded him upstairs to the front room on the first floor. ** Here 
we are, Mr. Crawley, and pray take a chair. I wish you could have 
made it convenient to come and see us at home. We are rather long, 
as my wife says, — long in family, she means, and therefore are not very 
well off for spare beds " 

"Oh, sir." 

" I've twelve of *em living, Mr. Crawley, — from eighteen years, the 
eldest, — a girl, down to eighteen months, the youngest,— a boy, and 
they go in and out, boy and girl, boy and girl, like the cogs of a wheel* 
They ain't such far away distant cousins from your own young ones— 
only first, once, as we call it." 

" I am aware that there is a family tie, or I should not have ventured 
to trouble you." 

" Blood is thicker than water ; isn't it ] I often say that. I heard 
of one of your girls only yesterday. She is staying somewhere down 

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in the country, not far from where my sister lives, — Mrs. Eames, the 
widow of poor John Eames who never did any good in this world. I 
daresay you've heard of her ? " - 

" The name is familiar to me, Mr. Toogood." 

" Of course it is. I've a nephew down there just now, and he saw 
your girl the other day ; very highly he spoke of her too. Let me 
see ; — ^how many is it you have % " 

" Three living, Mr. Toogood." 

" I've just four times three ; — ^that's tjie difference. But I comfort 
myself with the text about the quiver you know ; and I tell them 
that when they've eat up all the butter, they'll have to take their bread 

" I trust the young people take your teaching in a proper spirit." 

** I dont know much about spirit. There's spirit enough. My second 
girl, Lucy, told me that if I came home to-day without tickets for the 
pantomime I shouldn't have any dinner allowed me. That's the way 
they treat me. But we understand each other at home. We are all 
pretty good friends there, thank God. And there isn't a sick chick 
among the boiling." 

" You have many mercies for which you should indeed be thankful," 
said Mr. Crawley, gravely. 

" Yes, yes, yes ; that's true. I think of that sometimes, though 
perhaps not so much as I ought to do. But the best way to be thank- 
ful is to use the goods the gods provide you. * The lovely Thais sits 
beside you. Take the goods the gods provide you.' I often say that 
to my wife, till the children have got to calling her Thais. The children 
have it pretty much their own way with us, Mr. Crawley." 

By this time Mr. Crawley was almost beside himself, and was alto- 
gether at a loss how to bring in the matter on which he wished to speak. 
He had expected to find a man who in the hurry of London business 
might perhaps just manage to spare him five minutes, — ^who would 
grapple instantly with the subject that was to be discussed between 
them, would speak to him half-a-dozen hard words of wisdom, and 
would then dismiss him and turn on the instant to other matters of 
important business ; — but here was an easy familiar fellow, who seemed 
to have nothing on earth to do and at this first meeting had taken 
advantage of a distant family connection to tell him everything about 
the affieiirs of his own household. And then how peculiar were the 

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domestic traits which he told 1 What was Mr. Crawley to say to a man 
who had taught his own children to call their mother Thais % Of Thais 
Mr. Crawley did know something, and he forgot to remember that 
perhaps Mr. Toogood knew less. He felt it, however, to be very diffi- 
cult to submit the details of his case to a gentleman who talked in such 
a strain about his own wife and children. 

But something must be done. Mr. Crawley, in his present frame of 
mind, could not sit and talk about Thais all day. " Sir," he said, '* the 
pictore of your home is very pleasant, and I presume that plenty 
abounds there." 

" Well, you know, pretty toll-loU for that. With twelve of *em, Mr. 
Crawley, I needn't tell you they are not all going to have castles and 
parks of their own, unless they can get *em off their own bats. But 
I pay upwards of a hundred a year each for my eldest three boys' 
schooling, and I've been paying eighty for the girls. Put that and 
that together and see what it comes to. Educate, educate, educate ; 
that's my word." 

** No better word can be spoken, sir." 

"I don't think there's a girl in Tavistock Square that can beat 
Polly, — she's the eldest, called after her mother, you know ; — ^that can 
beat her at the piano. And Lucy has read Lord Byron and Tom 
Moore all through, every word of 'em. By Jove I believe she knows 
most of Tom Moore by heart. And the young 'uns are coming on just 
as well." 

" Perhaps, sir, as your time is, no doubt, precious ^" 

" Just at this time of the day we don't care so much about it, Mr. 
Crawley ; and one doesn't catch a new cousin every day, you know." 

" However, if you will allow me -" 

" We'll tackle to ] Very well ; so be it. Now, Mr. Crawley, let me 
hear what it is that I can do for you." Of a sudden, as Mr. Toogood 
spoke these last words, the whole tone of his voice seemed to change, 
and even the position of his body became so much altered as to indicate 
a different kind of man. " You just tell your story in your own way, 
and I won't interrupt you tiU you've done. That's always the best." 

" I must first crave your attention to an unfortunate preliminary,' 
said Mr. Crawley. 

"And what is that?" 

" I come before you in fonnd pauperis,''^ Here Mr. Crawley paused 

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and stood up "before the attorney with his hands crossed one upon the 
other, bending low, as though calling attention to the poorness of his 
raiment. " I know that I have no justification for my conduct. I 
have nothing of reason to offer why I should trespass upon your time. 
I am a poor man, and cannot pay you for your services." 

" Oh, bother ! " said Mr. Toogood, jumping up out of his chair. 

** I do not know whether your charity will grant me that which I 
ask " 

" Don't let*s have any more of this," said the attorney. " We none 
of us like this kind of thing at all. If I can be of any service to you, 
you're as welcome to it as flowers in May ; and as for billing my first- 
cousin, which your wife is, I should as soon think of sending in an 
account to my own." 

" But, Mr. Toogood " 

** Do you go on now with your story ; I'll put the rest all right." 

** I was bound to be explicit, Mr. Toogood.'* 

" Very well ; now you have been explicit with a vengeance, and you 
may heave a-head. Let's hear the story, and if I can help you I will. 
When I've said that, you may be sure I mean it. I've heard something 
of it before, but let me hear it all from you." 

Then Mr. Crawley began and told the story. Mr. Toogood was 
actually true to his promise, and let the narrator go on with his 
narrative without interruption. When Mr. Crawley came to his own 
statement that the cheque had been paid to him by Mr. Soames, and 
went on to say that that statement had been fake, — ** I told him that, 
but I told him so wrongly," — and then paused, thinking that the 
lawyer would ask some question, Mr. Toogood simply said, " Gro on ; 
go on. I'll come back to all that when you've done." And he merely 
nodded his head when Mr. Crawley spoke of his second statement, that 
the money had come from the dean. " We had been bound together 
by dose ties of early familiarity," said Mr. Crawley, " and in former 
years our estates in life were the same. But he has prospered and I 
have failed. And when creditors were importunate, I consented to 
accept relief in money, which had previously been often offered. And 
I must acknowledge, Mr. Toogood, while saying this, that I have 
known, — have known with heartfelt agony, — that at former times my 
wife has taken that from my friend Mr. Arabin with hand half-hidden 
from me, which I have refused. Whether it be better to eat — the 

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"broad of charity, — or not to eat bread at all, I, for myself, have no 
doubt,** he said ; " but when the want strikes one's wife and children, 
and the charity strikes only oneself, then there is a doubt." When he 
spoke thus, Mr. Toogood got up, and thrusting his hands into his 
waistcoat pockets walked about the room, exclaiming, " By George, 
by George, by George ! ** But he still let the man go on with his 
story, and heard him out at last to the end. 

" And they committed you for trial at the next Barchester assizes 1 ** 
said the lawyer. 

"They did." 

" And you employed no lawyer before the magistrates 1 ** 

** Xone ; — I refused to employ any one.** 

" You were wrong there, Mr. Crawley. I must be allowed to say 
that you were wrong there.*' 

" I may possibly have been so from your point of view, Mr. Toogood ; 
but permit me to explain. I ^'* 

" It's no good explaining now. Of course you must employ a lawyer 
for your defence, — an attorney who will put the case into the hands of 

" But that I cannot do, Mr. Toogood.** 

" You must do it. If you don't do it, your friends should do it for 
you. If you don*t do it, everybody will say you're mad. There isn't 
a single solicitor you could find within half a mile of you at this 
moment who wouldn't give you the same advice, — not a single man 
either, who has got a head on his shoulders worth a turnip.** 

When Mr. Crawley was told that madness would be laid to his 
charge if he did not do as he was bid, his face became very black, and 
assumed something of that look of determined obstinacy which it had 
worn when he was standing in the presence of the bishop and Mrs. 
Proudie. " It may be so,*' he said. " It may be as you say, Mr. 
Toogood. But these neighbours of yours, as to whose collected 
wisdom you speak with so much certainty, would hardly recommend 
me to indulge in a luxury for which I have no means of paying." 

"Who thinks about paying under such. circumstances as these?" 

"I do, Mr. Toogood." 

" The wretchedest costermonger that comes to grief has a barrister 
in a wig and gown to give him his chance of escape.'* 

'^But I am not a costermonger, Mr. Toogood, — though more 

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wretched perhaps' than any costermonger now in existence. It is my 
lot to have to endure the sufferings of poverty, and at the same time 
not to be exempt from those feelings of honour to which poverty is 
seldom subject. I cannot afford to call in legal assistance for which I 
cannot pay, — and I will not do it." 

" I'll carry the case through for you. It certainly is not just my 
line of business, — ^but I'll see it carried through for you." 

" Out of your own pocket 1 " 

" Never mind ; when I say Til do a thing, I'll do it." 

" No, Mr. Toogood ; this thing you can not do. But do not suppose 
I am the less grateful." 

** What is it I can do then 1 Why do you come to me if you won't 
take my advice % " 

After this the conversation went on for a considerable time without 
touching on any point which need be brought palpably before the 
reader's eye. The attorney continued to beg the clergyman to have 
his case managed in the usual way, and went so far as to tell him that 
he would be ill-treating his wife and family if he continued to be 
obstinate. But the clergyman was not shaken from his resolve, and 
was at last able to ask Mr. Toogood what he had better do, — ^how he 
had better attempt to defend himself, — on the understanding that no 
legal aid was to be employed. When this question was at last asked 
in such a way as to demand an answer, Mr. Toogood sat for a mo- 
ment or two in silence. He felt that an answer was not only de- 
manded, but almost enforced j and yet there might be much difficulty 
in giving it. 

" Mr. Toogood," said Mr. Crawley, seeing the attorney's hesitation, 
** T declare to you before God, that my only object will be to enable 
the jury to know about this sad matter all that I know myself. If I 
could open my breast to them I should be satisfied. But then a 
prisoner can say nothing; and what he does say is ever accounted 

" That is why you should have legal assistance." 

" We had already come to a conclusion on that matter, as I thought," 
said Mr. Crawley. 

Mr. Toogood paused for another moment or two, and then dashed 
at his answer j or rather, dashed at a counter-question. " Mr. Craw- 
ley, where did you get the cheque ] You must pardon me, you know ; 

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or, if you wish it, I will not press the question. But so much hangs 
on that, you know." 

" Everything would hang on it, — if I only knew." 

" You mean that you forget 1 " 

" Absolutely ; totally. I wish, Mr. Toogood, I could explain to you 
the toilsome perseverance with which I have cudgelled my poor brains, 
. endeavouring to extract from them some scintilla of memory that 
would aid me." 

" Could you have picked it up in the house 1 " 

** No ; — no ; that I did not do. Dull as I am, I know so much. 
It was mine of right, from whatever source it came to me. I know 
myself as no one else can know me, in spite of the wise man's motto. 
Had I picked up a cheque in my house, or on the road, I should not 
have slept till I had taken steps to restore it to the seeming owner. 
So much I can say. But, otherwise, I am in such matters so shandy- 
pated, that I can trust myself to be sure of nothing. I thought ; — I 
certainly thought " 

"You thought what?" 

'* I thought that it had been given to me by my friend the dean. I 
remember well that I was in his library at Barchester and I was somewhat 
provoked in spirit. There were lying on the floor hundreds of volumes, 
all glittering with gold, and reeking with new leather from the binder's. 
He asked me to look at his toys. Why should I look at them 1 There 
was a time, but the other day it seemed, when he had been glad to 
borrow from me such treasures as I had. And it seemed to me that 
he was heartless in showing me these things. Well; I need not trouble 
you with all that" 

" Go on ; — go on. Let me hear it all, and I shall learn something." 

" I know now how vain, how vile I was. I always know afterwards 
how low the spirit has grovelled. I had gone to him then because I 
had resolved to humble myself, and, for my wife's sake, to ask my friend 
— ^for money. With words which were very awkward, — ^which no doubt 
"were ungracious, — I had asked him, and he had bid me follow him from 
his hall into his library. There he left me awhile, and on returning 
told me with a smile that he had sent for money, — ^and, if I can remem- 
ber, the sum he named was fifty pounds." 

*' But it has turned out, as you say, that you have payed fifty pounds 
vrith his money, — ^besides the cheque." 

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" Tliat is true ; — ^tkat is quite true. There is no doubt of that. But 
as I was saying, — then he fell to talking about the books, and I was 
angered. I was very sore in my heart. From the moment in which 
the words of beggary had passed from my lips, I had repented. And 
he had laughed and had taken it gaily. I turned upon him and told 
him that I had changed my mind. I was grateful, but I would not 
have his money. ' And so I prepared to go. But he argued with me, 
and would not let me go, — telling me of my wife and of my children, 
and while he argued there came a knock at the door, and something 
was handed in, and I knew that it was the hand of his wife." 

" It was the money, I suppose 1 " 

"Yes, Mr. Toogood; it was the money. And- 1 became the more 
uneasy, because she herself is rich. I liked it the less because it seemed 
to come from her hand. But I took it. What could I do when he 
reminded me that I could not keep my parish unless certain sums were 
paid? He gave me a little parcel in a cover, and I took it, — and left 
him sorrowing. I had never before come quite to that ; — though, in- 
deed, it had in fact been often so before. What was the difference 
whether the alms were given into my hands or into my wife's % " 

" You are too touchy about it all, Mr. Crawley." 

" Of course I am. Do you try it, and see whether you will be touchy. 
You have worked hard at your profession, I daresay." 

" Well, yes ; pretty well. To tell the truth, I have worked hard. By 
George, yes 1 It's not so bad now as it used to be." 

" But you have always earned your bread ; bread for yourself, and 
bread for your wife and little ones. You can buy tickets for the 
play." . 

" I couldn't always buy tickets, mind you." 

" I have worked as hard, and yet I cannot get bread. I am older 
than you, and I cannot earn my bare bread. Look at my clothes. If 
you had to go and beg from Mr. Crump, would not you be touchy % " 

** As it happens Crump isn't so well off as I am." 

" Never mind. But I took it, and went home, and for two days I 
did not look at it. And then there came an illness upon me, and I 
know not what passed. But two men who had been hard on me came 
to the house when I was out, and my wife was in a terrible state ; and 
I gave her the money, and she went into Silverbridge and paid them.'* 

" And this cheque was with what you gave her 1 " 

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" No ; I gave lier money in notes, — just fifty pounds. When I 
gave it her, I thought I gave it all ; and yet afterwards I thought I 
remembered that in my illness I had found the cheque with the dean's 
money. But it was not so.** 

" You are sure of thatf 

" He has said that he put five notes of lOZ. each into the cover, and 
such notes I certainly gave to my wife." 

" Where then did you get the cheque ? " Mr. Crawley again paused 
before he answered. " Surely, if you will exert your mind, you will 
remember," said the lawyer. " Where did you get the cheque 1 " 

*' I do not know." 

Mr. Toogood threw himself back in his chair, took his knee up into 
his lap to nurse it, and began to think of it He sat thinking of it 
for some minutes without a word, — perhaps for five minutes, though 
the time seemed to be much longer to Mr. Crawley, who was, however, 
determined that he would not interrupt him. And Mr. X^ogood's 
thoughts were at variance with Mr. Toogood's former words. Perhaps, 
after all, this scheme of Mr. Crawley's, — or rather the mode of defence 
on which he had resolved without any scheme, — might be the best of 
which the case admitted. It might be well that he should go into court 
without a lawyer. " He has convinced me of his innocence," Mr. 
Toogood said to himself, " and why should he not convince a jury 1 He 
has convinced me, not because I am speciaUy soft, or because I love the 
man, — for as to that I dislike him rather than otherwise ; — but because 
there is either real truth in his words, or else so well-feigned a show of • 
truth that no jury can tell the difference. I think it is true. By 
George, I think he did get the twenty pounds honestly, and that he 
does not at this moment know where he got it. He may have put his 
finger into my eye ; but, if so, why not also into the eyes of a jury ] " 
Then he released his leg, and spoke something of hia thoughts aloud, 
" It's a sad story," he said ; " a very sad story." 

" Well, yes, it's sad enough. If you could see my house, you'd say 

" I haven't a doubt but what you're as innocent as I am." Mr. 
Toogood, as he said this, felt a little twinge of conscience. He did 
believe Mr. Crawley to be innocent, but he was not so sure of it as his 
•words would seem to imply. Nevertheless he repeated the words 
again ; — " as innocent as I am." 

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304j the last chronicle OF BARSET. 

" I don't know," said Mr. Crawley. " I don't know. I think I am ; 
hut I don't know." 

" I "believe yon are. But you see the case is a very distressing one. 
A jury has a right to say that the man in possession of a cheque for 
twenty pounds should account for his possession of it. If I under- 
stand the story aright, Mr. Soames will he ahle to prove that he 
hrought the cheque into your house, and, as far as he knows, never 
took it out again." 

" I suppose so ; aU the same, if he hrought it in, then did he also 
take it out again." 

" I am saying what he will prove, — or, in other words, what he will 
state upon oath. You can't contradict him. You can't get into the 
hox to do it, — even if that would he of any avail ; and I am glad that 
you cannot, as it would be of no avail. And you can put no one else 
into the hox who can do so.^ 

" No ; no." 

" That is to say, we think you cannot do so. People can do so many 
things that they don't think they can do ; and can't do so many things 
that they think they can do ! When will the dean he home 1 " 

•a don't know." 

"Before the trial 1" 

" I don't know. I have no idea." 

" It's almost a toss-up whether he'd do more harm or good if he were 

** I wish he might he there if he has anything to say, whether it 
might he for harm or good." 

*' And Mrs. Arabin ; — she is with him 1 " 

" They tell me she is not. She is in Europe. He is in Palestine." 

"In Palestine, is he?" 

" So they tell me. A dean can go where he likes. " He has no cure 
of souls to stand in the way of his pleasures." 

" He hasn't, — hasn't he 1 I wish I were a dean ; that is, if I were 
not a lawyer. Might I write a line to the dean, — and to Mrs. Dean, 
if it sefemed fit ? You wouldn't mind that 1 As you have come to see 
your cousin at last, — ^and very glad I am that you have, — ^you must 
leave him a little discretion. I won't say anything I oughtn't to say." 
Mr. Crawley opposed this scheme for some time, hut at last consented 
to the proposition. " And I'll tell you what, Mr. Crawley ; I am very 

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fond of cathedrals, I am indeed ; and I have long wanted to see 
Barchester. There's a very fine what-you-raay-call-'em ; isn't there 1 
Well ; I'll just run down at the assizes. We have nothing to do in 
London when the judges are in the country, — of course." Mr. Toogood 
looked into Mr. Crawley's eyes as he said this, to see if his iniquity 
were detected, hut the perpetual curate was altogether innocent in these 
matters. "Yes; I'll just run down for a mouthful of fresh air. Of 
course I shan't open my mouth in court. But I might say one word 
to the dean, if he's there ; — and one word to Mr. Soames. Who is con- 
ducting the prosecution % " Mr. Crawley said that Mr. Walker was 
doing so. "Walker, Walker, Walker 1 oh, — yes; Walker and 
Winthrop, isn't it ? A decent sort of man, I suppose 1 " 
" I have heard nothing to his discredit, Mr. Toogood." 
" And that's saying a great deal for a lawyer. Well, Mr. Crawley, 
if nothing else comes out between this and that, — ^nothing, that is, that 
shall clear your memory about that unfortunate bit of paper, you mnst 
simply tell your story to the jury as you've told it to me. I don't 
think any twelve men in England would convict you; — I don't 

" You think they would not 1 " 
" Of course I've only heard one side, Mr. Crawley." 
" No, — no, — no, that is true." 

" But judging as well as I can judge from one side, I don't think a 
jury can convict you. At any rate I'll see you at Barchester, and I'll 
write a line or two before the trial, just to find out anything that can 
be found out. And you're sure you won't come and take a bit of 
mutton with ns in the Square ? The girls would be delighted to see 
you, and so would Maria." Mr. Crawley said that he was quite sure 
he could not do that, and then having tendered reiterated thanks to his 
new friend in words which were touching in spite of their old-fashioned 
gravity, ho took his leave, and walked back again to the public-house 
at Paddington. 

He returned home to Hogglestock on the same afternoon, reaching 
tliat place at nine in the evening. During the whole of the day after 
leaving Eaymond's Buildings he was thinking of the lawyer and of the 
-words which the lawyer had spoken. Although he had been disposed 
to quarrel with Mr. Toogood on many points, although he had been 
more than on«e disgusted by the attorney's bad taste, shocked by his 

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low morality, and almost insulted by Mb easy famUisrity, stUl, when 
the interview was over, he liked the attorney. When first Mr. Toogood 
had hegufi to talk, he regretted very much that he had subjected him- 
self to the necessity of discussing his private afltairs with such a wmd- 
bag of a man; but when he left the chamber he trusted Mr. Toogood 
altogether, and was very glad that he had sought his aid. He was tired 
and exhausted when he reached home, as he had eaten nothing but a 
biscuit or two sinoe his breakfast; but his wife got him food and tea, 
and then asked him as to his success. « Was my cousin kind to you % 

« Very kind,-more than kind,-perhaps somewhat too pressmg in 
hiskindiiess. But I find no fault. God forbid that I should. He is, 
I think, a good man, and certainly has been good to me." 

" And what is to be done T' 

« He will write to the dean." 

" I am glad of that." 

" And he will be at Baichester." 

" Thank God for that." 

« But not as my lawyer." , 

« Nevertheless, I thank God that some one will be there who wiU 
know how to give you assistance and advice." „ -j -w, 

« But that was not the chiefest thing that he did for me, said Mr. 
Crawley. " He told me that he was convinced of my innocence. 



THE letters had been brought into the breakfast-parlour jt Plujtead 
Eectorr one morning, and the archdeacon had inspected them aU, and 
^nSZ. over to his wife her share of the spoil.-as was the cx^tom 
of 1 house. As to most of Mrs. Grantly's letters he never made any 

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further inquiry. To letters from her sister, the dean's wife, he was 
profoundly indiflferent, and rarely made any inquiry as to those which 
were directed in writing with which he was not familiar. But there 
were others as to which, as Mrs. Grantly knew, he would be sure to 
ask her questions if she did not show them. No note ever reached 
her from Lady Hartletop as to which he was not curious, and 
vet Lady Hartletop's notes very seldom contained much that was 
of interest. Now, on this morning, there came ,a letter which, as 
a matter of course, Mrs. Grantly read at breakfast, and which, she 
knew, would not be allowed to disappear without inquiry. Nor, 
indeed, did she wish to keep the letter from her husband. It was too 
important to be so treated. But she would have been glad to gain 
time to think in what spirit she would discuss the contents of the 
letter, — if only such time might be allowed to her. But the arch- 
deacon would allow her no time. " What does Henry say, my dear ? " 
he asked, before the breakfast things had been taken away. 

" What does he say % Well ; he says—. I'll give you his letter 
to read by-and-by." 

" And why not now ] " 

" I tliought I'd read it again myself, first." 

" But if you have read it, I suppose you know what's in it 1 " 

** Not very clearly, as yet. However, there it is." She knew very 
well that when she had once been asked for it, no peace would be 
allowed to her till he had seen it. And, alas ! there was not much 
probability of peace in the house for some time after he should 
see it. 

The archdeacon read the three or four first lines in silence, — and 
then he burst out. "He has; has he] Then, by heavens ." 

" Stop, dearest ; stop," said his wife, rising from her chair and 
coming over to him; "do not say words which you will surely 

" I will say words which shall make him repent. He shall never 
have from me a son's portion." 

"Do not make threats in anger. Do not ! You know that it is 
wrong. If he has offended you, say nothing about it, — even to your- 
self, — as to threatened punishments, till you can judge of the offence 
in cool blood." 

" I am cool," said the archdeacon. 


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" No, my dear ; no ; you are angry. And you have not even read 
his letter through." 

" I wiU read his letter." 

" You will see that the marriage is not imminent. It may be that 
even yet it will never take place. The young lady has refused him." 


" You will see that she has done so. He tells us so himself. And 
she has behaved very properly." 

" Why has she refused him % " 

" There can be no doubt about the reason. She feels that, with this 
charge hanging over her father, she is not in a position to become the 
wife of any gentleman. You cannot but respect her for that." 

Then the archdeacon finished his son*s letter, uttering sundry 
interjections and ejaculations as he did so. " Of course ; I knew it. 
I understand it all," he said at last. " I've nothing to do with the 
girl. I don't care whether she be good or bad." 

"Oh, my dear!" • 

" I care not at all, — with reference to my own concerns. Of course 
I would wish that the daughter of a neighbouring clergyman, — ^that 
the daughter of any neighbour, — that the daughter of any one what- 
soever, — ^should be good rather than bad. But as regards Henry and 
me, and our mutual relation, her goodness can make no difference. 
Let her be an angel, and still such a marriage must estrange him from 
me, and me from him." 

" But she has refused him." 

" Yes ; and what does he say 1 — that he has told her that he wiU 
not accept her refusal. Of course we know what it all means. The 
girl I am not judging. The girl I will not judge. But my own son, 
to whom I have ever done a father's duty with a father's affectionate 
indulgence, — him I will judge. I have warned him, and he declares 
himself to be careless of my warning. I shall take no notice of this 
letter. I shall neither write to him about it, nor speak to him about it. 
But I charge you to write to him, and tell him that if he does this 
thing he shall not have a child's portion from me. It is not that I will 
shorten that which would have been his ; but he shall have — nothing ! " 
Then having spoken these words with a solemnity which for the 
moment silenced his wife, he got up and left the room. He left the 
room and closed the door, but before he had gone half the length of 

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the hall towards his own study, he returned and addressed his wife 
again. " You understand my instructions, I hope % " 

"What instructions?" 

"That you write to Henry and tell him what I say." 

" I will speak again to you about it hy-and-by." 

" I will speak no more about it, — not a word more. Let there be 
not a word more said, but oblige me by doing as I ask you." 

Then he was again about to leave the room, but she stopped him. 
" Wait a moment, my dear." 

"Why should I wait?" 

" That you may listen to me. Surely you will do that, wben I ask 
you. I will write to Henry, of course, if you bid me ; and I will give 
him your message, whatever it may be ; but not to-day, my dear." 

"Why not to-day?" 

" Because the sun shall go down upon your wrath before I become 
its messenger. If you choose to write to-day yourself, I cannot help 
it. I cannot hinder you. If I am to write to him on your behalf I 
vdll take my instructions from you to-morrow morning. When to- 
morrow morning comes you will not be angry with me because of the 

The archdeacon was by no means satisfied ; but he knew his wife 
too well, and himself too well, and the world too well, to insist on the 
immediate gratification of his passion. Over his bosom's mistress he 
did exercise a certain marital control, — which was, for instance, quite 
sufficiently fixed to enable him to look down with thorough contempt 
on such a one as Bishop Proudie ; but he was not a despot who could 
exact a passive obedience to every fantasy. His wife would not have 
written the letter for him on that day, and he knew very well that she 
would not do so. He knew also that she was right ; — and yet he 
regretted his want of power. His anger at the present moment was 
very hot, — so hot that he wished to wreak it. He knew that he would 
cool before the morrow;— and, no doubt, knew also theoretically, that 
it would be most fitting that it should cool. Bat not the less was it a 
matter of regret to him that so much good hot anger should be wasted, 
and that he could not have his will of his disobedient son while it lasted. 
He might, no doubt, have written himself, but to have done so would 
not have suited him. Even in his anger he could not have written to 
his son without using the ordinary terms of affection, and in his anger 

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he could not bring himself to use those terms. " You will find that I 
shall be of the same mind to-morrow, — exactly," he said to his wife. 
*' I have resolved about it long since ; and it is not likely that I shall 
change in a day." Then he went out, about his parish, intending to 
continue to think of his son's iniquity, so that he might keep his anger 
hot, — red-hot. Then he remembered that the evening would come, and 
that he would say his prayers ; and he shook his head in regret, — in a 
regret of which he was only half conscious, though it was very keen, 
and which he did not attempt to analyse, — as he reflected that his rage 
would hardly be able to survive that ordeaL How common with us it 
is to repine that the devil is not stronger over us than he is. 

The archdeacon, who was a very wealthy man, had purchased a 
property in Plumstead, contiguous to the glebe-land, and had thus come 
to exercise in the parish the double duty of rector and squire. And of 
this estate in Barsetshire, which extended beyond the confines of 
Plumstead into the neighbouring parish of Eiderdown, and which 
comprised also an outlying farm in the parish of Stogpingum, — Stoke 
Pinguium would have been the proper name had not barbarous 
Saxon tongues clipped it of it's proper proportions, — ^he had always 
intended that his son Charles should enjoy the inheritance. There 
was other property, both in land and in money, for his elder son, and 
other again for the maintenance of his wife, — for the archdeacon's 
father had been for many years Bishop of Barchester, and such a 
bishopric as that of Barchester had been in those days worth money. 
Of his intention in this respect he had never spoken in plain language 
to either of his sons ; but the major had for the last year or two enjoyed 
the shooting of the Barsetshire covers, giving what orders he pleased 
about the game ; and the father had encouraged him to take something 
like the management of the property into his hands. There might be 
some fifteen hundred acres of it altogether, and the archdeacon had 
rejoiced over it with his wife scores of times, saying that there was 
many a squire in the county whose elder son would never find himself 
half so well placed as would his own yoimger son. Now there was a 
string of narrow woods called Plumstead Coppices which ran from a 
point near the church right across the parish, dividing the archdeacon's 
land from the Ullathome estate, and these coppices, or belts of wood- 
land, belonged to the archdeacon. On the morning of which we are 
speaking, the archdeacon, mounted on his cob, still thinking of his son's 

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iuiquity and of his own fixed resolve to punish him as he had said that 
lie would punish him, opened with his whip a woodland gate, from 
which a green muddy lane led through the trees up to the house of his 
gamekeeper. The man's wife was ill, and in his ordinary way of 
business the archdeacon was about to call and ask after her health. 
At the door of the cottage he found the man, who was woodman as 
well as gamekeeper, and was responsible for fences and faggots, as well 
as for foxes and pheasants' eggs. 

" HoVs Martha, Flurry 1 " said the archdeacon. 

" Thanking your reverence, she be a deal improved since the mistress 
was here, — ^last Tuesday it was, I think." 

" I'm glad of that. It was only rheumatism, I suppose % " 

" Just a tich of fever with it, your reverence, the doctor said." 

" Tell her I was asking after it. I won't mind getting down to-day, 
as I am rather busy. She has had what she wanted from the house 1 " 

" The mistress has been very good in that way. She always is, God 
bless her ! " 

" Good-day to you. Flurry. I'll ask Mr, Sims to come and read to 
her a bit this afternoon, or to-morrow morning." The archdeacon kept 
two curates, and Mr. Sims was one of them. 

" She'll take it very kindly, your reverence. But while you are here, 
sir, there's just a word I'd like to say. I didn't happen to catch Mr. 
Henry when he was here the other day." 

" Never mind Mr. Henry ; what is it you have to say % " 

" I do think, I do indeed, sir, that Mr. Thome's man ain't dealing 
fairly along of the foxes. I wouldn't say a word about it, only that Mr. 
Henry is so particular." 

" What about the foxes? What is he doing with the foxes 1 " 

" Well, sir, he's a trapping on 'em. He is, indeed, your reverence. 
I wouldn't speak if I warn't well nigh mortial sure." 

Kow the archdeacon had never been a hunting man, though in his 
early days many a clergyman had been in the habit of hunting without 
losing his clerical character by doing so ; but he had lived all his life 
among gentlemen in a hunting county, and had his own very strong 
ideas about the trapping of foxes. Foxes first and pheasants afterwards, 
had always been the rule with him as to any land of which he himself 
had had the management. And no man understood better than he did 
how to deal with keepers as to this matter of fox preserving, or knew 

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better that keepers will in truth obey not the words of their employers, 
but their sympathies. " Wish them to have foxes, and pay them, and 
they will have them," Mr. Sowerby of Chaldicotes used to say, and he 
in his day was reckoned to be the best preserver of foxes in Barsetshire. 
" Tell them to have them, and don't wish it, and pay them well, and 
you won't have a fox to interfere with your garae. I don't care what 
a man says to me, I can read it all like a book when I see his coverts 
drawn." That was what poor Mr. Sowerby of Chaldicotes used to say, 
and the archdeacon had heard him say it a score of times, and had 
learned the lesson. But now his heart was not with the foxes, — ^and 
especially not with the foxes on behalf of his son Henry. " I can't 
have any meddling with Mr, Thome," he said ; ** I can't and I won't. 

" But I don't suppose it can be Mr. Thome's order, your reverence ; 
and Mr. Henry is so particular." 

"Of course it isn't Mr. Thome's order. Mr. Thome has been a 
hunting man all his life." 

"But he have guv' up now, your reverence. He ain't a hunted 
these two years." 

" I'm sure he wouldn't have the foxes trapped." 

** Not if he knowed it, he wouldn't, your reverence. A gentleman 
of the likes of him, who's been a hunting over fifty year, wouldn't do 
the likes of that ; but the foxes is trapped, and Mr. Henry '11 be a putting 
it on me if I don't speak out. They is Plumstead foxes, too ; and a 
vixen was trapped just across the field yonder, in Goshall Springs, no 
later than yesterday morning." Flurry was now thoroughly in earnest ; 
and, indeed, the trapping of a vixen in February is a serious thing. 

" Goshall Springs don't belong to me," said the archdeacon. 

" No, your reverence ; they're on the UUathorne property. But a 
word from your reverence would do it. Mr. Henry thinks more of the 
foxes than anything. The last word he told me was that it would 
break his heart if he saw the coppices drawn blank." 

" Then he must break his heart." The words were pronounced, but 
the archdeacon had so much command over himself as to speak them 
in such a Voice that the man should not hear them. But it was 
incumbent on him to say something that the man should hear. ** I 
will have no meddling in the matter, Flurty. Wliether there are 
foxes or whether there are not, is matter of no great moment. I will 
not have a word said to annoy Mr. Thome." Then he rode away. 

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back through the wood and out on to the road, and the horse walked 
with him leisurely on, whither the archdeacon hardly knew, — for he 
was thinking, thinking, thinking. ** Well ; — if that ain't the darnedest 
thing that ever was," said Flurry; "but I'll tell the squire about 
Thome's man, — darned if I don't." Now " the squire " was young 
Squire Gresham, the master of the East Barsetshire hounds. 

But the archdeacon went on thinking, thinking, thinking. He 
could have heard nothing of his son to stir him more in his favour 
than this strong evidence of his partiality for foxes. I do not mean 
it to be understood that the archdeacon regarded foxes as better than 
active charity, or a contented mind, or a meek spirit, or than self- 
denying temperance. No doubt all these virtues did hold in his mind 
their proper places, alt(»gether beyond contamination of foxes. But 
he had prided himself on thinking that his son should be a country 
gentleman, and, probably nothing doubting as to the major's active 
charity and other virtues, was delighted to receive evidence of those 
tastes which he had ever wished to encourage in his son's character. 
Or rather, such evidence would have delighted him at any other time 
than the present. Now it only added more gall to his cup. " Why 
should he teach himself to care for such things, when he has not the 
spirit to enjoy them 1 " said the archdeacon to himself. " He is a fool, 
— ^a fool. A man that has been married once, to go crazy after a 
little girl, that has hardly a dress to her back, and who never was in 
a drawing-room in her life I Charles is the eldest, and he shall be the 
eldest. It will be better to keep it together. It is the way in which 
the country has become what it is." He was out nearly all day, and 
did not see his wife till dinner time. Her father, Mr. Harding, was 
still with them, but had breakfasted in his own room. Not a word, 
therefore, was said about Henry Grantly between the father and 
mother on that evening. 

Mrs. Grantly was determined that, unless provoked, she would say 
nothing to him till the following morning. He would sleep upon his 
wrath before she spoke to him again. And he was equally unwilling 
to recur to the subject. Had she permitted it, the next morning would 
have passed away, and no word would have been spoken. But this 
would not have suited her. She had his orders to write, and she had 
undertaken to obey these orders, — with the delay of one day. Were 
she not to write at all, — or in writing to send no message from the 

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father, there would be cause for further anger. And yet this, I think, 
was what the archdeacon wished. 

" Archdeacon," she said, " I shall write to Henry to-day." 

"Very weU." 

" And what am I to say from you 1 ** 

" I told you yesterday what are my intentions." 

" I am not asking about that now. We hope there will be years and 
years to come, in which you may change them, and shape them as you 
will. What shall I tell him now from you 1 " 

" I have nothing to say to him, — nothing ; not a word. He knows 
what he has to expect from me, for I have told him. He is acting 
with his eyes open, and so am I. If he marries Miss Crawley, be must 
live on his own means. I told him that myself so plainly, that he can 
want no further intimation." Then Mrs. Grantly knew that she was 
absolved from the burden of yesterday's message, and she plumed 
herself on the prudence of her conduct. On the same morning the 
archdeacon wrote the following note ; — 

"Dear Thornb, — 

"My man teUs me that foxes have been trapped on Darvell's 
farm, just outside the coppices. I know nothing of it myself, but I 
am sure you'll look to it. 

" Yours always, 

« T. Grantly." 

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There was great dismay in Barchester Palace after the visit paid to 
the bishop and Mrs. Proudie by that terr^bJe clerical offender, Mr. 
Crawley. It will be remembered, perhaps, how he had defied the 
bishop with spoken words, and how he had defied the bishop's wife by 
speaking no words to her. For the moment, no doubt, Mr. Crawley 
had the best of it. Mrs. Proudie acknowledged to herself that this was 
the case ; but as she was a woman who had never yet succumbed to 
an enemy, who had never, — ^if on such an occasion I may be allowed 
to use a school-boy*s slang, — ^taken a licking from any one, — it was not 
likely that Mr. Crawley would be long allowed to enjoy his triumph 
in peace. It would be odd if all the weight of the palace would not 
be able to silence a wretch of a perpetual curate who had already been 
committed to take his trial for thieving ; — and Mrs. Proudie was 
determined that all the weight of the palace should be used. As for 
the bishop, though he was not as angry as his wife, he was quite as 
unhappy, and therefore quite as hostile to Mr. Crawley ; and was fully 
conscious that there could be no peace for him now until Mr. Crawley 
should be crushed. If only the assizes would come at once, and get 
him condemned out of the way, what a blessed thing it would be ! 
But unluckily it still wanted nearly three months to the assizes, and 
during those three months Mr. Crawley would be at large and subject 
only to episcopal authority. During that time lie could not be silenced 
by the arm of the civil law. His wife was not long in expressing her 
opinion after Mr. Crawley had left the palace. " You must proceed 
against him in the Court of Arches, — and that at once,'' said Mrs. 
!Proudie. "You can do that, of course? I know that it will be 
expensive. Of course it will be expensive. I suppose it may cost us 

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some hundreds of pounds ; but duty is duty, my lord, and in such a 
case as this your duty as a bishop is paramount. 

The poor bishop knew that it was useless to explain to her the 
various mistakes which she made, — which she was ever making, — as 
to the extent of his powers and the modes of procedure which were 
open to him. When he would do so she would only rail at him for 
being lukewarm in his office, poor in spirit, and afraid of dealing 
roundly with those below him. On the present occasion he did say a 
word, but she would not even hear him to the end. " Don't tell me 
about rural deans, as if I didn't know. The rural dean has nothing to 
do with such a case. The man has been committed for trial. Send 
for Mr. Chad wick at once, and let steps be taken before you are an 
hour older." 

" But, my dear, Mr. Chadwick can do nothing." 

" Then I will see Mr. Chadwick." And in her anger she did sit 
down and write a note to Mr. Chadwick, begging him to come over to 
her at the palace. 

Mr. Chadwick was a lawyer, living in Barchester, who earned his 
bread from ecclesiastical business. His father, and his uncle, and his 
grandfather and granduncles, had all been concerned in the affairs of 
the diocese of Barchester. His uncle had been bailiff to the episcopal 
estates, or steward as he had been called, in Bishop Grantly's time, 
and still contrived to draw his income in some shape from the pro- 
perty of the see. The nephew had also been the legal assistant of 
the bishop in his latter days, and had been continued in that position 
by Bishop Proudie, not from love, but from expediency. Mr. John 
Chadwick was one of those gentlemen, two or three of whom are to be 
seen in connection with every see, — who seem to be hybrids — ^half-lay, 
half-cleric. They dress like clergymen, and affect that mixture of 
clerical solemnity and clerical waggishness which is generally to be 
found among minor canons and vicar-chorals of a cathedral. They live, 
or at least have their offices, half in the Close and half out of it, — 
dwelling as it were just on the borders of holy orders. They always 
wear white neck-handkerchiefs and black gloves ; and would be 
altogether clerical in their appearance, were it not that as regards the 
outward man they impinge somewhat on the characteristics of the 
undertaker. They savour of the church, but the savour is of the 

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church's exterior. Any stranger thrown into chance contact with one 
of them would, from instinct, begin to talk of things ecclesiastical 
without any refererence to things theological or things religious. They 
are always most worthy men, much respected in the society of the 
Close, and I never heard of one of them whose wife was not comfort- 
able or whose children were left without provision. 

Such a one was Mr. John Chadwick, and as it was a portion of his 
duties to accompany the bishop to consecrations and ordinations, he 
knew Dr. Proudie very well. Having been brought up, as it were, 
under the very wing of Bishop Grantly, it could not well be that he 
should love Bishop Grantly's successor. The old bishop and the new 
bishop had been so different that no man could like, or even esteem, 
them both. But Mr. Chadwick was a prudent man, who knew well 
the source from which he earned his bread, and he had never 
quarrelled with Bishop Proudie. He knew Mrs. Proudie also, — of 
necessity, — and when I say of him that he had hitherto avoided any 
open quarrel with her, it will, I think, be allowed that he was a man 
of prudence and sagacity. 

But he had sometimes been sorely tried, and he felt when he got her 
note that he was now about to eucounter a very sore trial He 
muttered something which might have been taken for an oath, were it 
not that the outward signs of the man gave warranty that no oath 
could proceed from such a one. Then he wrote a short note present- 
ing his compliments to Mrs. Proudie, and saying that he would call at 
the palace at eleven o'clock on the following morning. 

But, in the mean time, Mrs. Proudie, who could not be silent on the 
subject for a moment, did learn something of the truth from her 
husband. The information did not come to her in the way of 
instruction, but was teased out of the unfortunate man. "I know 
that you can proceed against him in the Court of Arches, under the 
* Church Discipline Act/ " she said. 

"i^o, my dear; no," said the bishop, shaking his head in his 

" Or in the Consistorial Court. It's all the same thing." 

"There must be an inquiry first, — ^by his brother clergy. There 
must indeed. It's the only way of proceeding." 

" But there has been an inquiry, and he has been committed." 

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" That doesn't signify, my dear. That's the Civil Law." 

" And if the Civil Law condemns him, and locks him up in prison ; — 
as it most certainly will do ? " 

*' But it hasn't done so yet, my dea^ I really think that as it has 
gone so far, it will be best to leave it as it is till he has taken his 

" What ! leave him there after what occurred this morning in this 
palace 1" The palace with Mrs. Proudie was always a palace, and 
never a house. " No ; no ; ten thousand times, no. Are you not 
aware that he insulted you, and grossly, most grossly insulted me 1 I 
was never treated with such insolence by any clergyman before, since I 
first came to this palace ; — never, never. And we know the man to be 
a thief ; — we absolutely know it. Think, my lord, of the souls of his 
people ! " 

" Oh, dear ; oh, dear ; oh, dear," said the bishop. 

" Why do you fret yourself in that way 1 " 

" Because you will get me into trouble. I tell you the only thing 
to be done is to issue a commission with the rural dean at the head 
of it." 

"Then issue a commission." 

" And they will take three months." 

"Why should they take three months] Why should they take 
more than three days, — or three hours 1 It is all plain sailing." 

" These things are never plain sailing, my dear. When a bishop has 
to oppose any of his clergy, it is always made as difficult as possible." 

" More shame for them who make it so." 

" But it is so. K I were to take legal proceedings against him, it 
would cost, — oh, dear, — more than a thousand pounds, I should say." 

" If it costs two you must do it." Mrs. Proudie's anger was still very 
hot, or she would not have spoken of an unremunerative outlay of 
money in such language as that. 

In this manner she did come to understand, before the arrival of Mr. 
Chad wick, that her husband could take no legal steps towards silencing 
Mr. Crawley until a commission of clergymen had been appointed to 
inquire into the matter, and that that commission should be headed by 
the rural dean within the limits of whose rural deanery the parish of 
Hogglestock was situated, or by some beneficed parochial clergyman of 
repute in the neighbourhood. Now the rural dean was Dr. Tempest 

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of Silverbridge, — who had held that position before the coming of Dr. 
Proudie to the diocese ; and there had grown up in the bosom of Mrs. 
Proudie a strong feeling that undue mercy had been shown to Mr. 
Crawley by the magistrates of Silverbridge, of whom Dr. Tempest had 
been one. '* These magistrates had taken bail for his appearance at 
the assizes, instead of committing him to prison at once, — ^as they were 
bound to do, when such an offence as that had been committed by a 
clergyman. But, no; — even though there was a clergyman among 
them, they had thought nothing of the souls of the poor people ! " In 
such language Mrs. Proudie had spoken of the affair at Silverbridge, 
and having once committed herself to such an opinion, of course she 
thought that Dr. Tempest would go through fire and water, — would 
omit no stretch of what little judicial power might be committed to 
his hands, — with the view of opposing his bishop and maintaining the 
culprit in his position. '' In such a case as this, cannot you name an 
acting rural dean yourself? Dr. Tempest, you know, is very old." 
*' No, my dear ; no ; I cannot." " You can ask Mr. Chadwick, at any 
rate, and then you could name Mr. Thumble." ** But Mr. Thumble 
doesn't even hold a living in the diocese. Oh, dear; oh, dear; oh^ 
dear I " And so the matter rested until Mr. Chadwick came. 

Mrs. Proudie had no doubt intended to have Mr. Chadwick all to 
herself, — at any rate so to encounter him in the first instance. But 
having been at length convinced that the inquiry by the rural dean was 
really necessary as a preliminary, and having also slept upon the question 
of expenditure, she gave directions that the lawyer should be shown 
into the bishop's study, and she took care to be absent at the moment 
of his arrival. Of course she did not intend that Mr. Chadwick should 
leave the palace without having heard what she had to say, but she 
thought that it would be well that he should be made to conceive that 
though the summons had been written by her, it had really been 
intended on the part of the bishop. " Mr. Chadwick will be with you 
at eleven, bishop," she said, as she got up from the breakfast-table, at 
which she left his lordship with two of his daughters and with a married 
son-in-law, a clergyman who was staying in the house. " Very well, 
my dear/' said the bishop with a smile, — for he was anxious not to 
betray any vexation at his wife's interference before his daughters or 
the Eev. Mr. Tickler. But he understood it all. Mr. Chadwick had 
been sent for with reference to Mr. Crawley, and he was driven, — 

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absolutely driven, to propose to his lawyer that this commission of 
inquiry should be issued. 

Punctually at eleven Mr. Chadwick came, wearing a very long face 
as he entered the palace door, — ^for he felt that he would in all proba- 
bility be now compelled to quarrel with Mrs. Proudio. Much he could 
l>ear, but there was a limit to his endurance. She had never absolutely 
sent for him before, though she had often interfered with him. " I shall 
have to tell her a bit of my mind,'' he said, as he stepped across the 
Close, habited in his best suit of black, with most exact white cravat, 
and yet looking not quite like a clergyman, with some touch of the 
undertaker in his gait. When he found that he was shown into the 
bishop's room, and that the bishop was there, — and the bishop only, — 
his mind was relieved. It would have been better that the bishop 
should have written himself, or that the chaplain should have written 
in his lordship's name ; that, however, was a trifle. 

But the bishop did not know what to say to him. If he intended 
to direct an inquiry to be made by the rural dean, it would be by no 
means becoming that he should consult Mr. Chadwick as to doing so. 
It might be well, or if not well, at any rate not improper, tbat he should 
make the application to Dr. Tempest through Mr. Chadwick ; but in 
that case he must give the order at once, and he still wished to avoid 
it if it were possible. Since he had been in the diocese no case so grave 
as this had been pushed upon him. The intervention of the rural dean 
in an ordinary way he had used, — had been made to use, — more than 
once, by his wife. A vicar had been absent a little too long from one 
parish, and there had been rumours about brandy-and-water in another. 
Once he had been very nearly in deep water because Mrs. Proudie had 
tiken it in dudgeon that a certain young rector, who had been left a 
widower, had a very pretty governess for his children ; and there had 
been that case, sadly notorious in the diocese at the time, of our excel- 
lent friend Mr. Robarts of Framley, when the bailiflfe were in his house 
because he couldn't pay his debts, — or rather, the debts of his friend 
for whom he had feigned bills. But in all these cases some good fortune 
had intervened, and he had been saved from the terrible necessity of 
any ulterior process. But now, — now he was being driven beyond him- 
self, and all to no purpose. If Mrs. Proudie would only wait three 
months the civil law would do it all for him. But here was Mr. Chad- 
wick in the room, and he knew that it would be useless for him to 

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attempt to talk to Mr. Chad wick about other matters, and so dismiss 
him. The wife of his bpsom would be down upon them before Chadwick 
could be out of the room. 

" H — m — ha. How d'ye do, Mr. Chadwick — won't you sit down % " 
Mr. Chadwick thanked his lordship, and sat down. '* It's very cold, 
isn't it, Mr. Chadwick t" 

" A hard frost, my lord, but a beautiful day." 

"Won't you come near the firel" The bishop knew that Mrs. 
Proudie was on the road, and had an eye to the proper strategical posi- 
tion of his forces. ^Irs. Proudie would certainly take up her position 
in a certain chair from whence the light enabled her to rake her husband 
thorouglily. "What advantage she might have from this he could not 
prevent ; — ^but he could so place Mr. Chadwick, that the lawyer should 
be more within the reach of his eye than that of his wife. So the 
"bishop pointed to an arm-chair opposite to himself and near the fire, 
and Mr. Chadwick seated himself accordingly. 

" This is a very sad affair about Mr. Crawley," said the bishop. 

" Very sad indeed," said the lawyer. ** I never pitied a man so much 
in my life, my lordi" 

This was not exactly the line which the bishop was desirous of 
taking. " Of course he is to be pitied ; — of course he is. But from 
all I hear, Mr. Chadwick, I am afraid, — I am afraid we must not 
acquit him." 

"As to that, my lord, he has to stand his trial, of course." 

" But, you see, Mr. Chadwick, regarding him as a beneficed clergy- 
man, — with a cure of souls, — the question is whether I should be 
justified in leaving him where he is till his trial shall come on." 

" Of course your lordship knows best about that, but ^" 

" I know there is a difficulty. I know that. But I am inclined to 
think that in the interests of the parish I am bound to issue a com- 
Inission of inquiry." 

" I believe your lordship has attempted to silence him, and that he 
has refused to comply." 

" I thought it better for everybody's sake, — especially for his own, 
that he should for a while be relieved from his duties ; but he is an 
obstinate man, a very obstinate man. I made the attempt with all 
consideration for his feelings." 

" He is hard put to it, my lord. I know the man and his pride. 

VOL. I. Y 

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The dean has spoken of him to me more than once, and nobody knows 
him so well as the dean. K I might venture to offer an opinion '^ 

" Grood morning, Mr. Chadwick," said Mrs. Proudie, coming into 
the room and taking her accustomed seat. " No, thank you, no ; I 
will stay away from the fire, if you please. His lordship has spoken 
to you no doubt about this unfortunate, wretched man 1 " 

" We are speaking of him now, my dear." 

" Something must of course be done to put a stop to the crying 
disgrace of having such a man preaching from a pulpit in this diocese. 
When I think of the souls of the people in that poor village, my hair 
literally stands on end. And then he is disobedient I " 

" That is the worst of it," said the bishop. " It would have been 
so much better for himself if he would have allowed me to provide 
quietly for the services till the trial be over." 

" I could have told you, my lord, that he would not do that, from 
what I knew of him," said Mr. Chadwick. 

" But he must do it," said Mrs. Proudie. " He must be made to 
do it." 

" His lordship will find it difficult," said Mr. Chadwick. 

" I can issue a commission, you know, to the rural dean," said the 
bishop mildly. 

" Yes, you can do that. And Dr. Tempest in two months' time will 
have named his assessors ^" 

" Dr. Tempest must not name them ; the bishop must name them," 
said Mrs. Proudie. 

" It is customary to leave that to the rural dean," said Mr. Chadwick. 
"The bishop no doubt can object to any one named." 

" And can specially select any clergyman he pleases from the arch- 
deaconry," said the bishop. " I have known it done." 

" The rural dean in such case has probably been an old man, and not 
active," said the lawyer. 

" And Dr. Tempest is a very old man," said Mrs. Proudie, " and in 
such a matter not at all trustworthy. He was one of the magistrates 
who took bail." 

" His lordship could hardly set him aside," said the lawyer. " At 
any rate I would not recommend him to try. I think you might suggest 
a commission of five, and propose two of the number yourself. I do 
not think that in such a case Dr. Tempest would raise any question." 

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At last it was settled in this way. Mr. Chad wick was to prepare a 
letter to Dr. Tempest, for the bishop's signature, in which the doctor 
should be requested, as the rural dean to whom Mr. Crawley was subject, 
to hold a commission of five to inquire into Mr. Crawley's conduct. 
The letter was to explain to Dr. Tempest that the bishop, moved by his 
soHcitude for the souls of the people of Hogglestock, bad endeavoured, 
"in a friendly way," to induce Mr. Crawley to desist from his minis- 
trations ; but that having failed through Mr. Crawley's obstinacy, he 
had no alternative but to proceed in this way. " You had better say 
that his lordship, as bishop of the diocese, can take no heed of the 
coming trial," said Mrs. Proudie. " I think his lordship had better say 
nothing at all about the trial," said Mr. Chadwick. " I think that will 
be best," said the bishop. 

"But if they report against him,". said Mr. Chadwick, "you can 
only then proceed in the ecclesiastical court, — at your own expense." 

" He'll hardly be so obstinate as that," said the bishop. 

" I'm afraid you don't know him, my lord," said the lawyer. The 
bishop, thinking of the scene which had taken place in that very room 
only yesterday, felt that he did know Mr. Crawley, and felt also that 
the hope which he had just expressed was one in which he himself 
put no trust. But something might turn up ; and it was devoutly to 
be hoped that Dr. Tempest would take a long time over his inquiry. 
The assizes might come on as soon as it was terminated, or very shortly 
afterwards ; and then everything might be well. " You won't find Dr. 
Tempest very ready at it," said Mr. Chadwick. The bishop in his 
heart was comforted by the words. " But he must be made to be 
ready to do his duty," said Mrs. Proudie, imperiously. Mr. Chadwick 
shrugged his shoulders, then got up, spoke his farewell little speeches, 
and left the palace. 

T 2 

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John Eames saw nothing more of Lily Dale till he packed up his 
portmanteau, left his mother's house, and went to stay for a few days 
with his old friend Lady Julia ; and this did not happen till he had 
been above a week at Guestwick. Mrs. Dale repeatedly said . that it 
was odd that Johnny did not come to see them; and Grace, speaking 
of him to Lily, asked why he did not come. Lily, in her funny way, 
declared that he would come soon enough. But even while she was 
joking there was something of half-expressed consciousness in her 
words, — as though she felt it to be foolish to speak of his coming as 
she might of that of any other young man, before people who knew 
her whole story. "He'll come quick enough. He knows, and I 
know, that his coming will do no good. Of course I shall be glad 
to see him. Why shouldn't I be glad to see him ? I've known him 
and liked him all my life. I liked him when there did not seem to be 
much about him to like, and now that he is clever, and agreeable, 
and good-looking, — which he never was as a lad, — why shouldn't I go 
on liking him % He's more like a brother to me than anybody else Tve 
got. James," — James was her brother-in-law. Dr. Crofts, — "thinks 
of nothing but his patients and his babies, and my cousin Bernard is 
much too grand a person for me to take the liberty of loving him. I 
shall be very glad to see Johnny Eames." From all which Mrs. Dale 
was led to believe that Johnny's case was still hopeless. And how 
should it not be hopeless 1 Had Lily not confessed within the last 
week or two that she still loved Adolphus Crosbie % 

Mrs. Eames also, and Mary, were surprised that John did not go 
over to Allington. " You haven't seen Mrs. Dale yet, or the squire % " 
said his mother. 

" I shall see them when I am at the cottage." 

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** Yes ; — ^no doubt. But it seems strange that you should be here so 
long without going to them." 

" There's time enough," said he. ^' I shall have nothing else to do 
when I'm at the cottage." Then, when Mary had spoken to him again 
in private, expressing a hope that there was " nothing wrong," he had 
been very angry with his sister. " What do you mean by wrong ? 
What rubbish you girls talk! and you never have any delicacy of 
feeling to make you silent." 

<* Oh, John, don't say such hard things as that of me ! " 
" But I do say them. You'll make me swear among you some day 
that I will never see Lily Dale again. As it is, I wish I never had 
seen her, — simply because I'm so dunned about it." In all of which 
I think that Johnny was manifestly wrong. When the humour was 
on him he was fond enough of talking about Lily Dale. Had he 
not taught her to do so, I doubt whether his sister would ever have 
mentioned Lily's name to him. " I did not mean to dun you, John," 
said Mary, meekly. 

But at last he went to Lady Julia's, and was no sooner there than 
he "was ready to start for Allington. When Lady Julia spoke to him 
about lily, he did not venture to snub her. Indeed, of all his friends, 
Lady Julia was the one with whom on this subject he allowed himself 
the most unrestricted confidence. He came over one day, just before 
dinner, and declared his intention of walking over to Allington 
immediately after breakfast on the following morning. '< It's the last 
time. Lady Julia," he said. 
" So you say, Johnny." 

** Ajid so I mean it ! What's the good of a man frittering away hi? 
life 1 What's the good of wishing for what you can't get % " 
*' Jacob was not in such a hurry when he wished for Eachel." 
"That was all very well for an old patriarch who had seven or 
eight hundred years to live." 

" My dear John, you forget your Bible. Jacob did not live half as 
long as that." 

"He lived long enough, and slowly enough, to be able to wait 
fourteen years ; — ^and then he had something to comfort him in the 
mean time. And, after all, Lady Julia, it's more than seven years 
since I first thought Lily was the prettiest girl I ever saw." 
" How old are you nowl " 

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" Twenty-seven, — ^and she's twenty-four." 

" YouVe time enough yet, if you'll only be patient." 

" I'll be patient for to-morrow. Lady Julia, but never again. ^Not 
that I mean to quarrel with her. I'm not such a fool as to quarrel with 
a girl because she can't like me. I know how it all is. If that 
scoundrel had not come across my path just when he did, — in that 
very nick of time, all might have been right betwixt her and me. I 
couldn't have offered to marry her before, when I hadn't as much in- 
come as would have found her in bi*ead-and-butter. And then, just 
as better times came to me, he stepped in ! I wonder whether it will 
be expected of me that I should forgive him 1 " 

" As far as that goes, you have no right to be angry with him." 

" But I am, — all the same." 

*^ And so was I, — ^but not for stepping in, as you call it." 

" You and I are different. Lady Julia. I was angry with him for 
stepping in ; but I couldn't show it. Then he stepped out, and I did 
manage to show it. And now I shouldn't wonder if he doesn't step in 
again. After all, why should he have such a power ? It was simply 
the nick of time which gave it to him." That John Eames should be 
able to find some consolation in this consideration is devoutly to be 
hoped by us alL 

There was nothing said about Lily Dale the next morning at break- 
fast. Lady Julia observed that John was dressed a little more neatly 
than usual ; — though the change was not such as to have called for her 
special observation, had she not known the business on which he was 

" You have nothing to send to the Dales ? " he said, as he got up 
from the table. 

"JSTothing but my love, Johnny." 

" Ko worsted or embroidery work, — or a pot of special jam for the 
squire 1 " 

" !N"o, sir, nothing ; though I should like to make you carry a pair 
of panniers, if I could." 

" They would become me well," said Johnny, " for I am going on an 
ass's errand." Then, without waiting for the word of affection which 
was on the old woman's lips, he got himself out bf the room, and started 
on his journey. 

The walk was only three miles and the weather was dry and frosty, 

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and he had conie to the turn leading up to the church and the squire's 
house almost before he remembered that he was near AUington. Here 
he paused for a moment to think. If he continued his way down by 
the " Bed Lion" and through Allington Street, he must knock at Mrs. 
Dale's door, and ask for admission by means of the servant, — ^as would 
be done by any ordinary visitor. But he could make his way on to 
the lawn by going up beyond the wall of the churchyard and through 
the squire's garden. He knew the path well, — very well; and he 
thought that he might take so much liberty as that, both with the 
squire and with Mrs. Dale, although his visits to Allington were not 
so frequent now as they used to be in the days of his boyhood. He 
did not wish to be admitted by the servant, and therefore he went 
through the gardens. Luckily he did not see the squire, who would 
have detained him, and he escaped from Hopkins, the old gardener, 
with little more than a word. " I'm going down to see the ladies, 
Hopkins ; I suppose I shall find them 1 " And then, while Hopkins 
was arranging his spade so that he might lean upon it for a little chat, 
Johnny was gone and had made his way into the other garden. He 
had thought it possible that he might meet Lily out among the walks 
by herself, and such a meeting as this would have suited him better 
than any other. And as he crossed the little bridge which separated 
the gardens he thought of more than one such meeting, — of one especial 
occasion on which he had first ventured to tell her in plain words that 
he loved her. But before that day Crosbie had come there, and at the 
moment in which he was speaking of his love she regarded Crosbie as 
an angel of light upon the earth. What hope could there have been 
for him then ? What use was there in his telling such a tale of love 
at that time % When he told it, he knew that Crosbie had been before 
him. He knew that Crosbie was at that moment the angel of light. 
But as he had never before been able to speak of his love, so was he 
then unable not to speak of it. He had spoken, and of course had 
been simply rebuked. Since that day Crosbie had ceased to be an angel 
of light, and he, John Eames, had spoken often. But he had spoken 
in vain, and now he would speak once again. 

He went through the garden and over the lawn belonging to the 
Small House and saw no one. He forgot, I think, that ladies do not 
come out to pick roses when the ground is frozen, and that croquet is 
not often in progress with the hoar-frost on the grass. So he walked 

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lip to the little terrace before the drawing-room, and looking in saw 
Mrs. Dale, and Lily, and Grace at their morning work. Lily was 
drawing, and Mrs. Dale was writing, and Grace had her needle in her 
hand. As it happened, no one at first perceived him, and he had time 
to feel that after all he would have managed better if he had been 
announced in the usual way. As, however, it was now necessary that 
he should announce himself, he knocked at the window, and they all 
immediately looked up and saw him. " It's my cousin John," said 
Grace. " Oh, Johnny, how are you at last 1 " said Mrs. Dale. But it 
was Lily who, without speaking, opened the window for him, who was 
the first to give him her hand, and who led him through into the 

" It's a great shame my coming in this way," said John, " and letting 
all the cold air in upon you." . 

" We shall survive it," said Mrs. Dale. " I suppose you have just 
come down from my brother-in-law 1 " 

" No ; I have not seen the squire as yet. I will do so before I go 
back, of course. seemed such a common-place sort of thing to 
go round by the village." 

" We are very glad to see you, by whatever way you come ; — are we 
not, mamma 1 " said lily. 

" Tm not so sure of that. We were only saying yesterday that as 
you had been in the country a fortnight without coming to us, we did 
not think we would be at home when you did come." 

" But I have caught you, you see," said Johnny. 

And so they went on, chatting of old times and of mutual friends 
very comfortably for full an hour. And there was some serious con- 
versation about Grace's father and his affairs, and John declared his 
opinion that Mr. Crawley ought to go to his uncle, Thomas Toogood, 
not at all knowing at that time that Mr. Crawley himself had come to 
the same opinion. And John gave them an elaborate description of 
Sir Eaffle Buffle, standing up with his back to the fire with his hat on 
his head, and speaking with a loud harsh voice, to show them the way 
in which he declared that that gentleman received his inferiors ; and 
then bowing and scraping and rubbing his hands together and simpering 
with would-be softness, — declaring that after that fashion Sir Eaffle 
received his superiors. And they were very merry, — so that no one 
would have thouprht that Johnny was a despondent lover, now bent on 

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throwing the dice for his last stake ; or that Lily was aware that she 
was in the presence of one lover, and that she was like to fall to the 
ground between two stools, — ^having two lovers, neither of whom could 
serve her turn. 

" How can you consent to serve him if he's such a man as that 1 " 
said Lily, speaking of Sir Eafifle. 

" I do not serve him. I serve the Queen, — or rather the public. I 
don't take his wages, and he does not play his tricks with me. He 
knows that he can't. He has tried it, and has failed. And he only 
keeps me where I am because I've had some money left me. He thinks 
it fine to have a private secretary with a fortune. I know that he tells 
people all manner of lies about it, making it out to be five times as 
much as it is. Dear old Huffle Snuffle. He is such an ass ; and yet 
he's had wit enough to get to the top of the tree, and to keep himself 
there. He began the world without a penny. Now he has got a 
handle to his name, and he'll live in clover all his life. It's very odd, 
isn't it, Mrs. Dale?" 

** I suppose he does his work 1 " 

" When men get so high as that, there's no knowing whether they 
work or whether they don't. There isn't much for them to do, as far 
as I can see. They have to look beautiful, and frighten the young 

" And does Sir Raffle look beautiful % " Lily asked. 

" After a fashion, he does. There is something imposing about such 
a man till you're used to it, and can see through it. Of course it's all 
padding. There are men who work, no doubt. But among the bigwigs, 
and bishops and cabinet ministers, I fancy that the looking beautiful 
is the chief part of it. Dear me, you don't mean to say it's luncheon 
time 1 " 

But it was luncheon time, and not only had he not as yet said a 
word of all that which he had come to say, but had not as yet made 
any move towards getting it said. How was he to arrange that Lily 
should be left alone with him ? Lady Julia had said that she should 
not expect him back till dinner-time, and he had answered her 
lackadaisically, " I don't suppose I shall be there above ten minutes. 
Ten minutes will say all I've got to say, and do all I've got to do. 
And then I suppose that I shall go and cut names about upon bridges, 
— eh, Lady Julia % " Lady Julia understood his words ; for once, upon 

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a former occasion, she had found him cutting Lily's name on the xail 
of a wooden bridge in her brother's grounds. But he had now been a 
couple of hours at the Small House, and had not said a word of that 
which he had come to say. 

" Are you going to walk out with us after lunch ? " said Lily. 

" He will have had walking enough," said Mrs. Dale. 

" We'll convoy him back part of the way," said Lily. 

" I'm not going yet," said Johnny, *^ unless you turn me out." 

" But we must have our walk before it is dark," said Lily. 

"You might go up with him to your uncle," said Mrs. Dale. 
" Lideed, I promised to go up myself, and so did you, Grace, to see the 
microscope. I heard Mr. Dale give orders that one of those long-legged 
reptiles should be caught on purpose for your inspection." 

Mrs. Dale's little scheme for bringing the two together was very 
transparent, but it was not the less wise on that account. Schemes 
will often be successful, let them be ever so transparent. Little intrigues 
become necessary, not to conquer unwilling people, but people who are 
willing enough, who, nevertheless, cannot give way except under the 
machinations of an intrigue. 

" I don't think I'll mind looking at the long-legged creature to-day," 
said Johnny. 

" I must go, of course," said Grace. 

Lily said nothing at the moment, either about the long-legged creature 
or the walk. That which must be, must be. She knew well why 
John Eames had coma there. She knew that the visits to his mother 
and to Lady Julia would never have been made, but that he might 
have this interview. And he had a right to demand, at any rate, as 
much as that. That which must be, must be. And therefore when 
both Mrs. Dale and Grace stoutly maintained their purpose of going 
up to the squire, Lily neither attempted to persuade John to accompany 
them, nor said that she would do so herself. 

'* I will convoy you home myself," she said, " and Grace, when she 
has done with the beetle, shaU come and meet me. Won't you, Grace 1 " 

" Certainly." 

" We are not helpless young ladies in these parts, nor yet timorous," 
continued Lily. '* We can walk about without being afraid of ghosts, 
robbers, wild bulls, young men, or gipsies. Come the field path, Grace. 
I will go as far as the big oak with him, and then I shall turn back, 

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and I shall come in by the stile opposite the church gate, and through 
the garden. So you can't miss me." 

" I daresay he'll come hack with you," said Grace. 

" 'Noj he won't. He will do nothing of the kind. He'll have to go 
on and open Lady Julia's bottle of port wine for his own drinking " 

All this was very good on Lily's part, and very good also on the part 
of Mrs. Dale ; and John was of course very much obliged to them. 
But there was a lack of romance in it all, which did not seem to him 
to argue well as to his success. He did not think much about it, but 
he felt that Lily would not have been so ready to arrange their walk had 
she intended to yield to his entreaty, l^o doubt in these latter days plain 
good sense had become the prevailing mark of her character, — perhaps, 
as Johnny thought, a little too strongly prevailing ; but even with all 
her plain good sense and determination to dispense with the absurdities 
of romance in the afiEedrs of her life, she would not have proposed 
herseK as his companion for a walk across the fields merely that 
she might have an opportunity of accepting his hand. He did not 
say all this to himself, but he instinctively felt that it was so. And 
he felt also that it should have been his duty to arrange the walk, or 
the proper opportunity for the scene that was tq come. She had done 
it instead,^she and her mother between them, thereby forcing upon 
him a painful conviction that he himself had not been equal to the 
occasion. '^ I always make a mull of it," he said to himself, when the 
girls went up to get their hats. 

They went down together through the garden, and parted where the 
paths led away, one to the Great House and the other towards the 
churcL " I'll certainly come and call upon the squire before I go back 
to London," said Johnny. 

" We'U teU him so," said Mrs. Dale. " He would be sure to hear 
that you had been with us, even if we said nothing about it." 

" Of course he would," said Lily; ** Hopkins has seen him." Then 
they separated, and Lily and John Eames were together. 

Hardly a word was said, perhaps not a word, till they had crossed 
the road and got into the field opposite to the church. And in this 
first field there was more than one path, and the children of the village 
were often there, and it had about it something of a public nature. 
John Eames felt that it was by no means a fitting field to say that 
which he had to say. In crossing it, therefore, he merely remarked that 

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the day was very fine for walking. Then he added one special word, 
"And it is so good of you, Lily, to come with me." 

" I am very glad to come with you. I would do more than that, 
John, to show how glad I am to see you.*' Then they had come to the 
second little gate, and beyond that the fields were really fields, and 
there were stiles instead of wicket-gates, and the business of the day 
must be begun. 

" Lily, whenever I come here you say you are glad to see me % " 

" And so I am, — very glad. Only that you would take it as meaning 
what it does not mean, I would tell you, that of all my friends living 
away from the reach of my daily life, you are the one whose coming is 
ever the most pleasant to me." 

"Oh, LHy!" 

" It was, I think, only yesterday that I was telling Grace that you 
are more like a brother to me than any one else. I wish it might be 
so. I wish we might swear to be brother and sister. I'd do more for 
you then than walk across the fields with you to Guestwick Cottage. 
Your prosperity would then be the thing in the world for which I 
should be most anxious. And if you should marry " 

" It can never be like that between us," said Johnny. 

" Can it not 1 I think it can. Perhaps not this year, or next year ; 
perhaps not in the next five years. But I make myself happy with 
thinking that it may be so some day. I shall wait for it patiently, very 
patiently, even though you should rebuff me again and again, — as you 
have done now." 

" I have not rebuffed you." 

"iTot maliciously, or injuriously, or offensively. I will be very 
patient and take little rebuffs without complaining. This is the worst 
stile of alL When Grace and I are here together we can never manage 
it without tearing ourselves all to pieces. It is much nicer to have you 
to help me." 

" Let me help you always," he said, keeping her hands in his after 
he had aided her to jump from the stile to the ground. 

" Yes, as my brother." 

" That is nonsense, Lily." 

" Is it nonsense ? ^Nonsense is a hard word.*' 

" It is nonsense as coming from you to me. Lily, I sometimes think 
that I am persecuting you, writing to you, coming after you, as I am 

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doing now, — telling the same whining story, asking, asking, and asking 
for that which you say you will never give me. And then I feel 
ashamed of myself, and swear that I will do it no more." 

" Do not he ashamed of yourself ; but yet do it no more." 

** And then," he continued, without minding her words, ** at other 
times I feel that it must he my own fault ; that if I only persevered 
with sufficient energy I must be successful At such times I swear that 
I will never give it up." 

"Oh, John, if you could only know how little worthy of such 
pursuit it is." 

" Leave me to judge of that, dear. When a man has taken a month, 
or perhaps only a week, or perhaps not more than half an hour, to make 
up his mind, it may be very well to tell him that he doesn't know 
what he is about. I've been in the office now for over seven years, and 
the f rst day I went I put an oath into a book that I would come back 
and get you for my wife when I had got enough to live upon." 

"Did you, John?" 

" Yes. I can show it you. I used to come and hover about the 
place in the old days, before I went to London, when I was such a fool 
that I couldn't speak to you if I met you. I am speaking of a time 
long before, — before that man came down here." 

•*Do not speak of him, Johnny," 

" I must speak of him. A man isn't to hold his tongue when every- 
thing he has in the world is at stake. I suppose he loved you after a 
fashion, once." 

" Pray, pray do not speak ill of him." 

** I am not going to abuse him. You can judge of him by his deeds. 
I cannot say anything worse of him than what they say. I suppose he 
loved you ; but he certainly did not love you as I have done. I have 
at any rate been true to you. Yes, Lily, I have been true to you. I 
am true to you. He did not know what he was about. I do. I am 
justified in saying that I do. I want you to be my wife. It is no use 
your talking about it as though I only half wanted it." 

" I did not say that." 

" Is not a man to have any reward ] Of course if you had married 
him there would have been an end of it. He had come in between me 
and my happiness, and I must have borne it, as other men bear such 
sorrows. But you have not married him ; and of course, I cannot but 

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feel that J may yet have a chance. Lily, answer me this. Do you 
believe that I love you 1 " But she did not answer him. " You can at 
any rate tell me that. Do you think that I am in earnest % " 

"Yes, I think you are in earnest." 

'* And do you believe that I love you with all my heart and all my 
strength and all my soulV 

"Oh, John 1" 

"But do you 1" 

" I think you love me." 

"Think ! What am I to say or to do to make you understand that my 
only idea of happiness is the idea that sooner or later I may get you to 
be my wife 1 Lily, will you say that it shaU be so ? Speak, Lily. There 
is no one that will not be glad. Your uncle will consent, — has con- 
sented. Your mother wishes it. Bell wishes it. My mother wishes it 
Lady Julia wishes it. You would be doing what everybody wants you to 
do. And why should you not do it % It isn*t that you dislike me. You 
wouldn't talk about being my sister, if you had not some sort of re^trd 
for me." 

" I have a regard for you." 

** Then why will you not be my wife 1 Oh, Lily, say the word now, 
here, at once. Say the word, and you'll make me the happiest fellow 
in all England." As he spoke he took her by both arms, and held her 
fa^. She did not struggle to get away from him, but stood quite still, 
looking into his face, while the first sparkle of a salt tear formed itsdf 
in each eye. " Lily, one little word will do it, — half a word, a nod, a 
smile. Just touch my arm with your hand and I will take it for a yes." 
I think that she almost tried to touch him ; that the word was in her 
throat and that she almost strove to speak it. But there was no syllable 
spoken, and her fingers did not loose themselves to fall upon his sleeve* 
" Lily, Lily, what can I say to you 7 " 

"I wish I could," she whispered; — ^but the whisper was so hoarse 
that he hardly recognised the voice. 

" And why can you not 1 What is there to hinder you % There is 
nothing to hinder you, Lily." 

** Yes, John ; there is that which must hinder me." 

"And what is it?" 

" I will tell you. You are so good and so true, and so excellent, — 
such a dear, dear, dear friend, that I will tell you everything, so that 

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you may read my heart. I will tell you as I tell mamma, — you and 
her and no one else j — ^for you are the choice friend of my heart. I 
cannot be your wife because of the love I bear for another man." 

"And that man is he, — ^he who came here 1 ** 

" Of course it is he. I think, Johnny, you and I are alike in this, 
that when we have loved we cannot bring ourselves to change. You 
will not change, though it would be so much better you should do so." 

" No j I will never change." 

" Nor can I. When 1 sleep I dream of him. When I am alone I 
cannot banish him from my thoughts. I cannot define what it is to 
love him. I want nothing from him, — ^nothing, nothing. But I move 
about through my little world thinking of him, and I shall do so to the 
end. I used to feel proud of my love, though it made me so wretched 
that I thought it would kill me. I am not proud of it any longer. It is 
a foolish poor-spirited weakness, — as though my heart had been only 
half formed in the making. Do you be stronger, John. A man should 
be stronger than a woman." 

" I have none of that sort of strength." 

*' Nor have I. What can we do but pity each other, and swear that 
we will be friends, — dear friends. There is the oak-tree, and I have 
got to turn back. We have said everything that we can say — unless 
you will tell me that you will be my brother.** 

"No; I wQl not tell you that." 

" Good-bye, then, Johnny." 

He paused, holding her by the hand and thinking of another question 
which he longed to put to her, — considering whether he would ask her 
that question or not. He hardly knew whether he were entitled to ask 
it ; — ^whether or no the asking of it would be ungenerous. She had 
said that she would tell him everything, — as she had told everything 
to her mother. " Of course," he said, " I have no right to expect to 
know anything of your future intentions ? " 

" You may know them all, — as far as I know them myself. I have 
said that you should read my heart." 

" If this man, whose name I cannot bear to mention, should come 
again " 

" If he were to come again he would come in vain, John." She did 
not say that he had come again. She could tell her own secret, but 
not that of another person. 

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"You would not many him, now that he is free 1 " 

She stood and thought awhile before she answered him. *• N*o, I 
should not marry him now. I think not.*' Then she paused again. 
" Ifay, I am sure I would not. After what has passed I could not 
trust myself to do it. There is my hand on it. I will not." 

" No, LUy, I do not want that." 

" But I insist. I will not marry Mr. Crosbie. But you must not 
misunderstand me, John. There ; — all that is over for me now. All 
those dreams about love, and marriage, and of a house of my own, and 
children, — and a cross husband, and a wedding-ring growing always 
tighter as I grow fatter and older. I have dreamed of such things as 
other girls do, — more perhaps than other girls, more than I should 
have done. And now I accept the thing as finished. You wrote 
something in your book, you dear John, — something that could not be 
made to come true. Dear John, I wish for your sake it was otherwise. 
I will go home and I will write in my book, this very day, Lilian Dale, 
Old Maid. If ever I make that false, do you come and ask me for the 

" JLet it remain there tiU I am allowed to tear it out." 

"I will write it, and it shall never be torn out. You I cannot 
marry. Him I will not marry. You may believe me, Johnny, when I 
say there can never be a third." 

" And is that to be the end of it? " 

" Yes ; — that is to be the end of it. Not the end of our friendship. 
Old maids have friends." 

" It shall not be the end of it. There shall be no end of it with 

" But, John " 

" Do not suppose that I will trouble you again, — at any rate not for 
a while. In five years' time perhaps " 

** Now, Johnny, you are laughing at me. And of course it is the 
best way. If there is not Grace, and she has caught me before I 
have turned back. Good-bye, dear, dear John. God bless you. I 
think you the finest fellow there is in the world. I do, and so does 
mamma. Eemember always that there is a temple at Alliogton in 
which your worship is never forgotten." Then she pressed his hand 
and turned away from him to meet Grace Crawley. John did not stop 
to speak a word to his cousin, but pursued his way alone. 

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" That cousin of yours," said Lily, " is simply the dearest, wannest- 
hearted, finest creature that ever was seen in the shape of a man." 

" Have you told him that you think him so 1 " said Grace. 

" Indeed, I have," said Lily. 

" But have you told this finest, warmest, dearest creature that he 
shall be rewarded with the prize he covets 1 " 

" No, Grace. I have told him nothing of the kind. I think he 
understands it aU now. If he does not, it is not for the want of my 
telling him. I don't suppose any lady was ever more open-spoken to 
a gentleman than I have been to him." 

" And why have you sent him away disappointed 1 You know you 
love him." 

'* You see, my dear," said Lily, "you allow yourself, for the sake of 
your argument, to use a word in a double sense, and you attempt to 
confound me by doing so. But I am a great deal too clever for you, 
and have thought too much about it, to be taken in in that way. I 
certainly love your cousin John; and so I do love Mr. Boyce, the 

** You love Johnny much better than you do Mr. Boyce." 

"True; very much better; but it is the same sort of love. How- 
ever, it is a great deal too deep for you to understand. You're too 
young, and I shan't try to explain it. But the long and the short of it 
is, — I am not going to marry your cousin." 

** I wish you were," said Grace, " with all my heart." 

John Eames as he returned to the cottage was by no means able to 
fall back upon those resolutions as to his future life, which he had 
formed for himself and communicated to his friend Dairy mple and 
which he had intended to bring at once into force in the event of his 
being again rejected by lily Dale. " I will cleanse my mind of it 
altogether," he had said, " and though I may not forget her, I will live 
as though she were forgotten. If she declines my proposal again, I 
will accept her word as final. I will not go about the world any 
longer as a stricken deer, — to be pitied or else bullied by the rest of 
the herd." On his way down to Guestwick he had sworn twenty 
times that it should be so. He would make one more eflfbrt, and then 
he would give it up. But now, after his interview with Lily, he was 
as little disposed to give it up as ever. 

He sat upon a gate in a paddock through which there was a back 
VOL. I. z 

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entrance into Lady Julia's garden, and there swore a thousand oaths 
that he would never give her up. He was, at any rate, sure that she 
would never become the wife of any one else. He was equally sure 
that he would never become the husband of any other wife. He could 
trust her. Yes ; he was sure of that. But could he trust himself % Com- 
muning with himself, he told himself that after all he was but a poor 
creature. Circumstances had been very good to him, but he had done 
nothing for himself. He was vain, and foolish, and unsteady. So he 
told himself while sitting upon the gate. But he had, at any rate, been 
constant to Lily, and constant he would remain. 

He would never more mention her name to anyone, — ^unless it were 
to Lady Julia to-night. To Dalrymple he would not open his mouth 
about her, but would plainly ask his friend to be silent on that subject 
if her name should be mentioned by him. But morning and evening 
he would pray for her, and in his prayers he would always think of 
her as his wife. He would never speak to another girl without 
remembering that he was bound to Lily. He would go nowhere into 
society without recalling to mind the fact that he was bound by the 
chains of a solemn engagement. If he knew himself he would be 
constant to Lily. 

And then he considered in what manner it would be best and most 
becoming that he should still prosecute his endeavour and repeat his 
offer. He thought that he would write to her every year, on the same 
day of the year, year after year, it might be for the next twenty years. 
And his letters should be very simple. Sitting l^re on the gate he 
planned the wording of his letters; — of his first letter, and of his 
second, and of his third. They should be very like to each other, — 
should hardly be more than a repetition of the same words, — " If now 
you are ready for me, then, Lily, am I, as ever, still ready for you." 
And then " if now " again, and again " if now ; " — ^and still " if now." 
When his hair should be grey, and the wrinkles on his cheeks, — ^ay, 
though they should be on hers, he would still continue to tell her ftom 
year to year that he was ready to take her. Surely some day that 
" if now " would prevail. And should it never prevail, the merit of 
his constancy should be its own reward. 

Such letters as those she would surely keep. Then he looked forward, 
down into the valley of coming years, and fancied her as she might sit 
reading them in the twilight of some long evening, — ^letters which had 

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been written all in vain. He thought that he could look forward with 
some satisfaction towards the close of his own career, in having been 
the hero of such a love-story. At any rate, if such a story were to be 
bis story, the melancholy attached to it should arise from no fault of 
his own. He would still press her to be his wife. And then as he 
remembered that he was only twenty-seven and that she was twenty-four, 
he began to marvel at the feeling of grey old age which had come upon 
him, and tried to make himseK believe that he would have her yet 
before the bloom was off her cheek. 

He went into the cottage and made his way at once into the room 
in which Lady Julia was sitting. She did not speak at first, but 
looked anxiously into his face. And he did not speak, but turned 
to a table near the window and took up a book, — though the room was 
too dark for him to see to read the w(»xLi. ^' John,'' at last said Lady 

"WeU, myladyr' 

" Have you nothing to tell me, Johnl" 

"Nothing on earth,— except the same old story, which has now 
become a matter of course." 

" But, John, wlQ you not tell me what she has said ? " 

" Lady Julia, she has said no ; simply no. It is a very easy word 
to say, and she has said it so often that it seems to come horn her quite 
naturally." Then he got a candle and sat down over the fire with a 
volume of a novel. It was not yet past five, and Lady Julia did not 
go upstairs to dress till six, and therefore there was an hour during 
which they were together. John had at first been rather grand to his 
old friend, and very uncommunicative. But before the dressing-bell 
had rung he had been coaxed into a confidential strain and had told 
everything. " I suppose it is wrong and selfish," he said. ** I suppose 
I am a dog in a manger. But I do own that there is a consolation 
to me in the assurance that she will never be the wife of that 

" I would never forgive her if she were to marry him now," said 
Lady Julia. 

'^ I could never forgive him. But she has said that she will not, 
and I know that she will not forswear herself. I shall go on with it. 
Lady Julia. I have made up my mind to that. I suppose it will 
never come to anything, but I shall stick to it. I can live an old 

z 2 

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bachelor as well as another man. At any rate I shall stick to it 
Then the good silly old woman comforted him and applauded him as 
though he were a hero among men, and did reward him, as Lily had 
predicted, hy one of those now rare bottles of superexceUent port which 
had come to her from her brother's cellar. 

John Eames stayed out his time at the cottage, and went over more 
than once again to Allington,*and called on the squire, on one occasion 
dining with him and meeting the three ladies from the Small House ; 
and he walked with the girls, comporting himself like any ordinary 
man. But he was not again alone with Lily Dale, nor did he learn 
whether she had in truth written those two words in her book. But 
the reader may know that she did write them there on the evening of 
the day on which the promise was made. " Lilian Dale, — Old Maid." 

And when John's holiday was over, he returned to his duties at the 
elbow of Sir Kafle Buflfle. 



About this time Grace. Crawley received two letters, the first of them 
reaching her while John Eames was still at the cottage, and the other 
immediately after his return to London. They both help to tell our 
story, and our reader shall, therefore, read them if he so please, — or, 
rather, he shall read the first and as much of the second as is necessary 
for him. Grace's answer to the first letter he shall see also. Her 
answer to the second will be told in a very few words. The first was 
from Major Grantly, and the task of answeiing that was by no means 
easy to Grace. 

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" Cosby Lodge, — February, 186—. 
"Deabest Grace, 

" I TOLD you when I parted from you, that I should, write to 
you, and I think it best to do so at once, in order that you may fully 
understand me. Spoken words are soon forgotten ; " — " I shall never 
forget his words," Grace said to herself as she read this ; — " and are 
not always as plain as they might be. Dear Grace, I suppose I ought 
not to say so, but I fancied when I parted from you at Allington that 
I had succeeded in making myself dear to you. I believe you to be 
so true in spirit, that you were unable to conceal from me the fact that 
you love me. I shall believe that this is so, till I am deliberately and 
solemnly assured by yourself that it is not so ; — and I conjure you to 
think what is due both to yourself and to myself, before you allow 
yourself to think of making such an assurance unless it be strictly true. 

" I have already told my own friends that I have asked you to be 
my wife. I tell you this, in order that you may know how little effect 
your answer to me has had towards inducing me to give you up. What 
you said about your father and your family has no weight with me, and 
ought ultimately to have none with you. This business of your father's 
is a great misfortune, — so great that, probably, had we not known each 
other before it happei^ed, it might have prevented our becoming intimate 
when we chanced to meet. But we had met before it happened, and 
before it happened I had determined to ask you to be my wife. What 
should I have to think of myself if I allowed my heart to be altered by 
such a cause as that ? 

" I have only further to say that I love you better than any one in 
the world, and that it is my best hope that you will be my wife. I 
wiU not press you till this affair of your father's has been settled ; but 
when that is over I shall look for my reward without reference to its 
result. N'ot that I doubt the result if there be anything like justice in 
England ; but that your debt to me, if you owe me any debt, will be 
altogether irrespective of that. If, as I suppose, you wiU remain at 
Allington for some time longer, I shall not see you till after the trial is 
over. As soon as that is done, I will come to you wherever you are. 
In the mean time I shall look for an answer to this; and if it be true 
that you love me, dear, dear Grace, pray have the courage to tell me so. 

" Most affectionately your own, 

"Henry Grantlt." 

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When the letter was given to Grace across the breakfast- table, both 
Mrs. Dale and lily suspected that it came from Major Grantly, but not 
a word was spoken about it. When Grace with hesitating hand broke 
the envelope, neither of her friends looked at her. Lily had a letter 
of her own, and Mrs. Dale opened the newspaper. But still it was 
impossible not to perceive that her face became red with blushes, and 
then they knew that the letter must be from Major Grantly. Grace 
herself could not read it, though her eye ran down over the two pages 
catching a word here and a word there. She had looked at the name 
at once, and had seen the manner of his signature. " Most aflfection- 
ately your own ! " What was she to say to him ? Twice, thrice, as 
she sat at the breakfast-table she turned the page of the letter, and at 
each turning she read the signature. And she read the beginning, 
"Dearest Grace." More than that she did not really read till she had 
got the letter away with her into the seclusion of her own room. 

"Not a word was said about the letter at breakfast. Poor Grace went 
on eating or pretending to eat, but could not bring herself to utter a 
word. Mrs. Dale and Lily spoke of various matters, which were quite 
indifferent to them ; but even with them the conversation was so difficult 
that Grace felt it to be forced, and was conscious that they were think- 
ing about her and her lover. As soon as she could make an excuse she 
left the room, and hurrying upstairs took the letter from her pocket and 
read it in earnest. f 

*' That was from Major Grantly, mamma," said Lily. 

" I daresay it was, my dear." 

" And what had we better do ; or what had we better say ? " 

" Nothing, — I should say. Let him fight his own battle. If We 
interfere, we may probably only make her more stubborn in clinging 
to her old idea." 

" I think she will cling to it." 

" For a time she will, I daresay. And it will be best that she should. 
He himself will respect her for it afterwards." Thus it was agreed 
between them that they should say nothing to Grace about the letter 
unless Grace should first speak to them. 

Grace read her letter over and over again. It was the first love- 
letter she had ever had ; — the first letter she had ever received from 
any man except her father and brother, — the first, almost, that had 
ever been written to her by any other than her own old special friends. 

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The words of it were very strange to her ear. He had told her when 
he left her that he would write to her, and therefore she had looked 
forward to the event which had now come ; but she had thought that 
it would be much more cjistant,— and she had tried to make herself 
believe that when it did come it would be very different from this 
letter which she now possessed. " He will tell me that he has altered 
his mind. He ought to do so. It is not proper that he should still 
think of me when we are in such disgrace." But now the letter had 
come, and she acknowledged the truth of his saying that written 
words were clearer in their expression than those simply spoken. 
" Not that I could ever forget a syllable that he said." Yet, as she 
held the letter in her hand she felt that it was a possession. It was a 
thing at "vdiich she could look in coming years, when he and s&e 
might be far apart, — a thing at which she could look with pride in 
remembering that he had thought her worthy of it. 

Neither on that day nor on the next did she think of her answer, 
nor on the third nor the fourth with any steady thinking. She knew 
that an answer would have to be written, and she felt that the sooner 
it was written the easier might be the writing ; but she felt also that 
it should not be written too quickly. A week should first elapse, she 
thought, and therefore a week was allowed to elapse, and then the day 
for writing her answer came. She had spoken no word about it either 
to Mrs. Dale or to Lily. She had longed to do so, but had feared. 
Even though she should speak to Lily she could not be led by Lily's 
advice. Her letter, whatever it might be, must be her own letter. She 
would admit of no dictation. She must say her own say, let her say 
it ever so badly. As to the manner of saying it, Lily's aid would have 
been invaluable ; but she feared that she could not secure that aid 
without compromising her own power of action, — ^her own individuality ; 
and therefore she said no word about the letter either to Lily or ♦to 
Lily's mother. 

On a certain morning she fixed herself at her desk to write her letter. 
She had known that the task would be difficult, but she had little 
known how difficult it would be. On that day of her first attempt she 
did not get it written at all. How was she to begin 1 He had called 
her " Dearest Grace ; " and this mode of beginning seemed as easy as 
it was sweet. " It is very easy for a gentleman," she said to herself, 
" because he may say just what he pleases." She wrote the words. 

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" Dearest Henry," on a scrap of paper, and immediately tore it into 
fragments as though she were ashamed of having written them. She 
knew that she would not dare to send away a letter beginning with 
such words. She would not even have dared to let such words in her 
own handwriting remain within the recesses of her own little desk. 
" Dear Major Grantly," she began at length. It seemed to her to be 
very ugly, but after much consideration she believed it to be correct. 
On the second day the letter was written as follows ^-v- 

" Allington, Thursday. 

" My dear Major Grantly, — I do not know how I ought to answer 
your kind letter, but I must tell you that I am very much flattered 
by your great goodness to me. I cannot understand why you should 
think so much of me, but I suppose it is because you have felt for all 
our misfortunes. I will not say anything about what might have 
happened, if it had not been for papa's sorrow and disgrace ; and as 
far as I can help it, I will not think of it ; but I am sure that I ought 
not to think about loving any one, that is, in the way you mean, while 
we are in such trouble at home. I should not dare to meet any of your 
great friends, knowing that I had brought nothing with me but dis- 
grace. And I should feel that I was doing an injury to dear Edith, 
which would be worse to me than anything. 

" Pray believe that I am quite in earnest about this. I know that a 
gentleman ought not to marry any girl to do himself and his family an 
injury by it ; and I know that if I were to make such a marriage I 
should be unhappy ever afterwards, even though I loved the man ever 
so dearly, with all my heart." These last words she had underscored 
at first, but the doing so had been the unconscious expression of her 
own affection, and had been done with no desire on her part to convey 
that expression to him. But. on reading the words she discovered their 
latent meaning, and wrote it all again. 

" Therefore I know that it will be best that I should wish you good- 
bye, and I do so, thanking you again and again for your goodness to mfe. 

" Believe me to be, 

** Yours very sincerely, 

" Grace Crawley." 

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The letter when it was written was hateful to her ; but she had tried 
her hand at it again and again, and had found that she could do nothing 
better. There was much in his letter that she had not attempted to 
answer. He had implored her to tell him whether or no she did in 
truth love him. Of course she loved him. He knew that well enough. 
Why jshould she answer any such question] There was a way of 
answering it indeed which might serve her turn,— or rather serve his, 
of which she was thinking more than of her own. She might say that 
she did not love him. It would be a lie, and he would know that it 
would be a lie. But still it might serve the turn. She did not like 
the idea of writing such a lie as that, but nevertheless she considered 
the matter. It would be very wicked ; but still, if it would serve the 
turn, might it not be well to write it 1 But at last she reflected that, 
after all, the doing of the thing was in her own hands. She could re- 
fuse to marry this man without burdening her conscience with any lie 
about it. It only required that she should be firm. She abstained, 
therefore, from the falsehood, and left her lover*s question unanswered. 
So she put up her letter and directed it, and carried it herself to the 
village post-office. 

On the day after this she got the second letter, and that she showed 
immediately to Mrs. Dale. It was from her mother, and was written 
to tell her that her father was seriously ill. " He went up to London 
to see a lawyer about this weary work of the trial," said Mrs. Crawley. 
" The fatigue was very great, and on the next day he was so weak that 
he could not leave his bed. Dr. Turner, who has been very kind, says 
that we need not frighten ourselves, but he tliinks it must be some 
time before he can leave the house. He has a low fever on him, and 
wants nourishment. His mind has wandered once or twice, and he 
has asked for you, and I think it will be best, love, that you should 
come home. I know you will not mind it when I say that I think he 
would like to have you here. Dr. Turner says that the illness is chiefly 
owing to his not having proper food." 

Of course she would go at once. " Dear Mrs. Dale," she said, " I 
must go home. Can you send me to the station 1 " Then Mrs. Dale 
read the letter. Of course they would send her. W ould she go on 
that day, or on the next 1 Might it not be better to write first, and 
say that she was going 1 But Grace would go at once. ** I know it 
will be a comfort to mamma j and I know that he is worse than mamma 

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says." Of course there was no more to be said, and she was despatched 
to the station. Before she went Mrs. Dale asked after her purse. 
" If there is any trouble about money, — for your journey, or anything, 
you will not scruple to come to me as to an old friend." But Grace 
assured her that there was no trouble about money — for her journey. 
Then Lily took her aside and produced two clean new five-pound, notes. 
" Grace, dear, you won't be ill-natured. You know I have a little 
fortune of my own. You know I can give them without missing them." 
Grace threw' herself into her friend's arms and wept, but woxild have 
none of her money. " Buy a present from me for your mother, — ^whom 
I love though I do not know her," " I will give her your love/* Grace 
said, " but nothing else." And then she went. 



Mb. Dobbs Broughton and Mr. Musselboro were sitting together on 
a certain morning at their office in the City, discussing the affairs of 
their joint business. The City office was a very poor place indeed, in 
comparison with the fine house which Mr. Dobbs occupied at the West 
End ; but then City offices are poor places, and there are certain City 
occupations which seem to enjoy the greater credit the poorer are the 
material circumstances by which they are surrounded. Turning out of 
a lane which turns out of Lombard Street, there is a desolate, forlorn- 
looking, dark alley, which is called Hook Court. The entrance to this 
alley is beneath the first floor of one of the houses in the lane, and in 
passing under this covered way jbhe visitor to the place finds himself in 
a small paved square court, at the two further comers of which there are 
two open doors ; for in Hook Court there are only two houses. There 
is No. 1, Hook Court, and No 2, Hook Court The entire premises 

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indicated by No. 1, are occupied by a finn of wine and spirit merchants, 
in connection with whose trade one side and two angles of the court are 
always lumbered with crates, hampers, and wooden cases. And nearly 
in the middle of the court, though somewhat more to the wine-mer- 
chants' side than to the other, there is always gaping open a trap-door, 
leading down to vaults below ; and over the trap there is a great board 
with a bright advertisement in very large letters : — 


22*. 6rf. per dozen. 

And this notice is so bright and so large, and the trap-door is so con- 
spicuous in the court, that no visitor, even to No. 2, ever afterwards 
can quite divest his memory of those names. Burton and Bangles, 
Himalaya wines. It may therefore be acknowledged that Burton and 
Bangles have achieved their object in putting up the notice. The house 
No. 2, small as it seems to be, standing in the jamb of a comer, is divided 
among different occupiers, whose names are painted in small letters 
upon the very dirty posts of the doorway. Nothing can be more 
lemarkable than the contras't between Burton and Bangles and these 
other City gentlemen in the method taken by them in declaring their 
presence to visitors in the court. The names of Dobbs Broughton and 
of A. Musselboro, — the Christian name of Mr. Musselboro was 
Augustus, — were on one of those dirty posts, not joined together by 
any visible " and," so as to declare boldly that they were partners ; but 
in close vicinity, — showing at least that the two gentlemen would be 
found in apartments very near to each other. And on the first-floor of 
this house Ddbbs Broughton and his friend did occupy three rooms, — 
or rather two rooms and a closet — between them. The larger and front 
room was tenanted by an old clerk, who sat within a rail in one comer 
of it. And there was a broad, short counter which jutted out from the 
wall into the middle of the room, intended for the use of such of the 
public as might come to transact miscellaneous business with Dobbs 
Broughton or Augustus Musselboro. But any one accustomed to the 
look of offices might have seen with half an eye that very little business 
was ever done on that counter. Behind this large room was a smaller 
one, belonging to Dobbs Broughton, in the fumishing and arrangement 

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of wluch some regard had been paid to comfort. The room was carpeted, 
and there was a sofa in it, though a very old one, and two arm-chairs 
and a mahogany office-table, and a cellaret, which was generally well 
supplied with wine which Dobbs Broughton did not get out of the 
vaults of his neighbours. Burton and Bangles. Behind this, again, but 
with a separate entrance from the passage, was the closet; and this 
closet was specially devoted to the use of Mr. Musselboro. Closet as it 
was, — or cupboard as it might almost have been called, — ^it contained a 
table and two chairs ; and it had a window of its own, which opened 
out upon a blank wall which was distant from it not above four feet. 
As the house to which this wall belonged was four storeys high, it would 
sometimes happen that Mr. Musselboro's cupboard was rather dark. 
But this mattered the less as in these days Mr. Musselboro seldom used 
it. Mr. Musselboro, who was very constant at his place of business, — 
much more constant than his friend, Dobbs Broughton, — ^was generally 
to be found in his friend's room. Only on some special occasions, on 
which it was thought expedient that the commercial world should be 
made to understand that Mr. Augustus Musselboro had an individual 
existence of his own, did that gentleman really seat himself in the dark 
closet. Mr. Dobbs Broughton, had he been asked what was his trade, 
would have said that he was a stockbroker; and he would have 
answered truly, for he was a stockbroker. A man may be a stockbroker 
though he never sells any stock ; as he may be a barrister though he 
has no practice at the bar. I do not say that Mr. Broughton never sold 
any stock ; but the buying and selling of stock for other people was 
certainly not his chief business. And had Mr. Musselboro been asked 
what was his trade, he would have probably given an evasive answer. 
At any rate in the City, and among people who understood City mat- 
ters, he would not have said that he was a stockbroker. Both Mr. 
Broughton and Mr. Musselboro bought and sold a good deal, but it was 
chiefly on account. The shares which were bought and sold very 
generally did not pass from hand to hand ; but the difference in the 
price of the shares did do so. And then they had another little business 
between them. They lent money on interest. And in this business 
there was a third partner, whose name did not appear on the diity door- 
post. That third partner was Mrs. Van Siever, the mother of Clara 
Van Siever whom Mr. Conway Dalrymple intended to portray as Jael 
driving a nail into Sisera's head. 

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On a certain morning Mr. Broughton and Mr. Miisselboro were sitting 
together in the ofi&ce which has been described. They were in Mr. 
Broughton*8 room, and occupied each an arm-chair on. the different sides 
of the fire. Mr. Musselboro was sitting close to the table, on which a 
ledger was open before him, and he had a pen and ink before him, as 
though he had been at work. Dobbs Broughton had a small betting- 
book in his hand, and was seated with his feet up against the side of 
the fireplace. Both men wore their hats, and the aspect of the room 
was not the aspect of a place of business. They had been silent for 
some minutes when Broughton took his cigar-case out of his pocket, and 
nibbled off the end of a cigar, preparatory to lighting it. 

"You had better not smoke here this morning, Dobbs," said 
" Why shouldn't I smoke in my own room 1 " 
" Because she'll be here just now." 

" What do I care % If you think I'm going to be afraid of Mother 
Van, you're mistaken. Let come what may, I'm not going to live under 
her thumb." So he lighted his cigar. 

" All right," said Musselboro, and he took up his pen and went to 
work at his book. 
" What is she coming here for this morning 1 " asked Broughton. 
"To look after her money. What should she come fori" 
" She gets her interest. I don't suppose there's better paid money 
in the City." 
" She hasn't got what was coming to her at Christmas yet." 
"And this is February. What would she havel She had better 
put her dirty money into the three per cents., if she is frightened at 
having to wait a week or two." 
" Can she have it to-day 1 " 

" What, the whole of it 1 Of course she can't. You know that as 
well as I do. She can have four hundred pounds if she wants it. But 
seeing all she gets out of the concern she has no right to press for it in 

that way. She is the old usurer I ever came across in my life." 

" Of course she likes her money." 

" likes her money ! By Gleorge, she does ; her own and anybody 
else's that she can get hold ofl For a downright leech, recommend mo 
always to a woman. When a woman does go in for it, she is much 
more thorough than any man." Then Broughton turned over the little 

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pages of his book, and Musselboro pondered over the big pages of his 
book, and there was silence for a quarter of an hour. 

" There's something about nine hundred and fifteen pounds due to 
her,** said Musselboro. 

" I daresay there is." 

" It would be a very good thing to let her have it if youVe got it. 
The whole of it this morning, I mean." 

" If ! yes, if 1 " said Broughton. 

** I know there's more than that at the bank." 

" And Tm to draw out every shilling that there is ! Ill see Mother 
Van — further first. She can have 500Z. if she likes it, — and the rest 
in a fortnight. Or she can have my note-of-hand for it aU at fourteen 

" She won't like that at all," said Musselboro. 

" Then she must lump it. I'm not going to bother myseK about her. 
I've pretty nearly as much money in it as she has, and we're in a boat 
together. K she comes here bothering, you'd better tell so." 

** You'U see her yourself? " 

" Not unless she comes within the next ten minutes. I must go 
down to the court. I said I'd be there by twelve. I've got somebody 
I want to see." 

** I'd stay if I were you." 

" Why should I stay for her 1 If she thinks that I'm going to make 
myself her clerk, she's mistaken. It may be aU very well for you, 
Mussy, but it won't do for me. I'm not dependent on her, and I don't 
want to marry her daughter." 

"It will simply end in her demanding to have her money back 

" And how will she get it ] " said Dobbs Broughton. " I haven't a 
doubt in life but she'd take it to-morrow if she could put her hands 
upon it. And then, after a bit, when she began to find that she didn't 
like four per cent., she'd bring it back again. But nobody can do 
business after such a fashion as that For the last three yeaijs she'? 
drawn close upon two thousand a year for less than eighteen thousand 
pounds. When a woman wants to do that, she can't have her money 
in her pocket every Monday morning." 

" But you've done better than that yourself, Dobbs." 

" Of course I have. And who has made the connection 1 and who 

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has done the work? I suppose she doesn't think that I'm to have all 
the sweat and that she is to have all the profit." 

" if you talk of work, Dohbs, it is I that have done the most of it." 
This Mr. Musselboro said in a very serious voice, and with a look of 
much reproach. 

" And youVe been paid for what youVe done. Come, Mussy, you'd 
better not turn against me. You'll never get your change out of that. 
Even if you marry the daughter, that won't give you the mother's money. 
She'll stick to every shilling of it till she dies ; and she'd take it with 
her then, if she knew how." Having said this, he got up from his 
chair, put his httle book into his pocket, and walked out of the office. 
He pushed his way across the court, which was more than ordinarily 
crowded with the implements of Burton and Bangles' trade, and as 
he passed under the covered way he encountered at the entrance an 
old woman getting out of a cab. The old woman was, of course. 
Mother Van, as her* partner, Mr. Dobbs Broughton, irreverently 
called her. "Mrs. Van Siever, how d'ye do? Let me give you a 
hand. Fare from South Kensington) I always give the fellows three 

"You don't mean to teU me it's six miles?" And she tendered a 
florin to the man. 

" Can't take that, ma'am," said the cabman. 

" Can't take it ! But you must take it. Broughton, just get a 
policeman, will you ] " Dobbs Broughton satisfied the driver out of 
his own pocket, and the cab was driven away. "What did you give 
him ] " said Mrs. Van Siever. 

" Just another sixpence. There never is a policeman anywhere about 

"It'U be out of your own pocket, then," said Mrs. Van. "But 
you're not going away % " 

" I must be at Capel Court by half-past twelve ; — I must, indeed. 
If it wasn't real business, I'd stay." 

" I told Musselboro I should be here." 

" He's up there, and he knows all about the business just as well as 
I do. When I found that I couldn't stay for you, I went through the 
account with him, and it's all settled. Good morning. I'll see you at 
the West End in a day or two." Then he made his way out into 
Lombard Street, and Mrs. Van Siever picked her steps across the yard, 

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and mounted the stairs, and made her way into the room in which Mr. 
Musselboro was sitting. 

" Somebody's been smoking, Gus," she said, ahnost as soon is she 
had entered the room. 

" That's nothing new here," he replied, as he got up from his chair. 

" There's no good being done when men sit and smoke over their 
work. Is it you, or he, or both of you 1 " 

" Well ; — it was Broughton was smoking just now. I don't smoke 
of a morning myself." 

" What made him get up and run away when I came % " 

" How can I tell, Mrs. Van Siever 1 " said Musselboro laughing. " If 
he did run away when you came, I suppose it was because he didn't 
want to see you." 

" And why shouldn't he want to see me ? Gus, I expect the truth 
from you. How are things going on here ] " To this question Mr. 
Musselboro made no immediate answer ; but tilted himself back in his 
chair and took his hat off, and put his thumbs into the arm-holes of 
his waistcoat, and looking his patroness full in the face. " Gus," she 
said again, " I do expect the truth from you. How are things going 
on here 1 " 

" There'd be a good business, — if he'd only keep things together." 

" But he's idle. Isn't he idle 1 " 

" Confoundedly idle," said Musselboro. 

" And he drinks ; — don't he drink in the day 1 " 

" Like the mischief, — some days. But that isn't the worst of it." 

" And what is the worst of it 1 " 

" Newmarket ; — ^that's the rock he's going to pieces on." 

" You don't mean to say he takes the money out of the business for 
that]" And Mrs. Van Siever's face, as she asked the question, 
expressed almost a tragic horror. " If I thought that I wouldn't give 
him an hour's mercy." 

" When a man bets he doesn't well know what- money he uses. I 
can't say that he takes money that is not his own. Situated as I am, 
I don't know what is his own and what isn't. If your money was in 
my name I could keep a hand on it ; — but as it is not I can do nothing. 
I can see that what is put out is put out fairly well ; and when I think 
of it, Mrs. Van Siever, it is quite wonderful that we've lost so httle. 

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It has been next to nothing. That has been my doing ; — and that's 
about all that I can do." 

"You must know whether he has used my money for his own 
purposes or not." 

" If you ask me, I think he has," said Mr. Musselboro. 

" Then I'll go into it, and I'll find it out, and if it is so, as sure as 
my name's Van Siever, I'll sew him up." Having uttered which 
terrible threat, the old woman drew a chair to the table and seated 
herself fairly down, as though she were determined to go through all 
the books of the ofi&ce before she quitted that room. Mrs. Van Siever 
in her present habiliments was not a thing so terrible to look at as she 
had been in her wiggeries at Mrs. Dobbs Broughton's dinner-table. 
Her curls were laid aside altogether, and she wore simply a front 
beneath her close bonnet, — and a very old front, too, which was not 
loudly offensive because it told no lies. Her eyes were as bright, and 
her little wizen face was as sharp, as ever ; but the wizen face and the 
bright eyes were not so much amiss as seen together with the old dark 
brown silk dress which she now wore, as they had been with the 
wiggeries and the evening finery. Even now, in her morning costume, 
in her work-a-day business dress, as we may call it, she looked to be 
very old, — so old that nobody could guess her age. People attempting to 
guess would say that she must be at least over eighty. And yet she was 
wiry, and strong, and nimble. It was not because sH<b was feeble that 
she was thought to be so old. They who so judged of her were led to 
their opinion by the extreme thinness of her face, and by the brightness 
of her eyes, joined to the depth of the hollows in which they lay, and 
the red margin by which they were surrounded. It was not really 
the fact that Mrs. Van Siever was so very aged, for she had still 
some years to live before she would reach eighty, but tliat she was 
such a weird old woman, so small, so ghastly, and so ugly ! " I'll sew 
him up, if he's been robbing me," she said. " I will, indeed." And 
she stretched out her hand to grab at the ledger which Musselboro had 
been using. 

" You won't understand anything from that," said he, pushing the 
book over to her. 

" You can explain it to me." 

« That's all straight sailing, that is." * 

VOL. !• A A 

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"And where does he keep the figures that ain't straight sailing] 
That's the book I want to see." 

" There is no such book." 

" Look here, Gus, — if I find you deceiving me I'll throw you over- 
board as sure as I'm a living woman. I will indeed. I'll have no 
mercy. I've stuck to you and made a man of you, and I expect you 
to stick to me." 

" Not much of a man," said Musselboro, with a touch of scorn in 
his voice. 

" You've never had a shilling yet but what I gave you." 

" Yes ; I have. I've had what I've worked for, — and worked con- 
founded hard too." 

** Look here, Musselboro : if you're going to throw me over, just 
tell me so, and let us begin fair." 

" I'm not going to throw you over. I've always been on the square 
with you. Why don't you trust me out and out, and then I could do 
a deal better for you. You ask me now about your money. I don't 
know about your money, Mrs. Van Siever. How am I to know any- 
thing about your money, Mrs. Van Siever ] You don't give me any 
power of keeping a hand upon Dobbs Broughton. I suppose you have 
security from Dobbs Broughton, but I don't know what security you 
have, Mrs. Van Siever. He owes you now 915Z. 16*. 2d, on last year's 
account ! " 

" Why doesn't he give me a cheque for the money 1 " 

" He says he can't spare it. You may have 500Z., and the rest when 
he can give it you. Or he'll give you his note-of-hand at fourteen days 
for the whole." 

" Bother his note-of-hand. Why should I take his note-of-hand 1 " 

" Do as you like, Mrs. Van Siever." 

" It's the interest on my own money. Why don't he give it me 1 I 
suppose he has had it." 

" You must ask him that, Mrs. Van Siever. You're in partnership 
with him, and he can tell you. Nobody else knows anything about it 
If you were in partnership with me, then of course I could tell yon. 
But you're not. You've never trusted me, Mrs. Van Siever." 

The lady remained there closeted with Mr. Musselboro for an hour 
after that, and did, I think, at length learn something more as to the 
details of her partner's business, than her faithful servant Mr. Mussel- 

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boro had at first found himself able to give to her. And at last they 
came to friendly and confidential terms, in the midst of which the 
personal welfare of Mr. Dobbs Broughton was, I fear, somewhat for- 
gotten. Not that Mr. Musselboro palpably and plainly threw his friend 
overboard. He took his friend's part, — ^alleging excuses for him, and 
pleadijQg some facts. " Of course, you know, a man like that is fond- 
of pleasure, Mrs. Van Siever. He*s been at it more or less all his life. 
I don't suppose he ever missed a Derby, or an Oaks, or the cup at Ascot, 
or the Groodwood in his life." 

" He'll have to miss them before long, I'm thinking," said Mrs. Yan 

** And as to not cashing up, you must remember, Mrs. Yan Siever, 
that ten per cent, won't come in quite as regularly as four or five. 
When you go for high interest, there must be hitches here and there. 
There must, indeed, Mrs. Yan Siever." 

" I know all about it," said Mrs. Yan Siever. " If he gave it me as 
soon as he got it himself, I shouldn't complain. Never mind. He's 
only got to give me my little bit of money out of the business, and then 
he and I will be all square. You come and see Clara this evening, 

Then Mr. Musselboro put Mrs. Yan Siever into another cab, and went 
out upon 'Change, — Changing about the Bank, and standing in Thread- 
needle Street, talking to other men just like himself. When he saw 
Dobbs Broughton he told that gentleman that Mrs. Yan Siever had 
been in her tantrums, but that he had managed to pacify her before 
she left Hook Court. " I'm to take her the cheque for the five hundred 
to-night," he said. 

A A 

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On the first of March Conway Dalrymple's easel was put up in Mrs. 
Dobbs Broughton's boudoir upstairs, the canvas was placed upon it on 
which the outlines of Jael and Sisera had been already drawn, and Mrs. 
Broughton and Clara Van Siever and Conway Dalrymple were assembled 
with the view of steady art-work. But before we see how they began 
their work together we will go back for a moment to John Eames on 
his return to his London lodgings. The first thing every man does 
when he returns after an absence is to look at his letters, and John 
Eames looked at his. There were not very many. There was a note 
marked immediate, from Sir Raffle Buffle, in which Sir R. had scrawled 
in four lines a notification that he should be driven to an extremity of 
inconvenience if Eames were not at his post at half-past nine on the 
following morning. " I think I see myself there at that hour," said 
John. There was a notification of a house dinner, which he was asked 
to join, at his club, and a card for an evening gathering at Lady 
Glencora Palliser*8, — procured for him by his friend Conway, — and an 
invitation to dinner at the house of his uncle, Mr. Toogood ; and there 
was a scented note in the handwriting of a lady which he did not 
recognize. " My nearest and dearest friend, M. D. M.," he said, as he 
opened the note and looked at the signature. Then he read the letter, 
which was from Miss Demolines. 

" My dear Mr. Eames, 

•* Pray come to me at once. I know that you are to be back 
to-morrow. Do not lose an hour if you can help it. I shall be at home 
at half -past five. I fear what you know of has been begun. But it 
certainly shall not go on. In one way or other it must be prevented. 
I won*t say another word till I see you, but pray come at once. 

" Yours always, 
« Tliursdayy M. D. M." 

" Poor mamma isn't very well, so you had bett-^r ask for me." 

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JAEL. 357 

*' Beautiful ! " said Johnny, as he read the note. " There's nothing 
I like so much as a mystery, — especially if it's about nothing. I wonder 
why she is so desperately anxious that the picture should not be painted. 
Td ask Dalrymple, only I should spoil the mystery.*' Then he sat 
himself down, and began to think of Lily. There could be no treason 
to Lily in his amusing himself with the freaks of such a woman as 
Miss Demolines. 

At eleven o'clock on the morning of the 1st of March, — the day 
following that on which Miss Demolines had written her note, — the 
easel was put up and the canvas was placed on it in Mrs. Broughton's 
room. Mrs. Broughton and Clara were both there, and when they 
had seen the outlines as far as it had been drawn, they proceeded to 
make arrangements for their future operations. The period of work 
was to begin always at eleven, and was to be continued for an hour 
and a half or for two hours on the days on which they met. I fear 
that there was a little improper scheming in this against the two 
persons whom the ladies were bound to obey. Mr. Dobbs Broughton 
invariably left his house soon after ten in the morning. It would 
sometimes happen, though not frequently, that he returned home early 
in the day, — at four, perhaps, or even before that; and should he 
chance to do so while the picture was going on, he would catch them 
at their work if the work were postponed till after luncheon. And 
then again, Mrs. Yan Siever would often go out in the morning, and 
when she did so, would always go without her daughter. On such 
occasions she went into the city, or to other resorts of business, at 
which^ in some manner quite unintelligible to her daughter, she looked 
after her money. But when she did not go out in the morning, she 
did go out in the afternoon, and she would then require her daughter's 
company. There was some place to which she always went of a 
Friday morning, and at which she stayed for two or three hours. 
Friday therefore was a fitting day on which to begin the work at Mrs. 
Broughton's house. All this was explained between the three conspirators. 
Mrs. Dobbs Broughton declared that if she entertained the slightest 
idea that her husband would object to the painting of the picture in 
her room, nothing on earth would induce her to lend her countenance 
to it j but yet it might be well not to tell him just at first, — perhaps 
not till the sittings were over, — perhaps not tiU the picture was 
finished ; as, otherwise, tidings of the picture might get round to ears 

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which were not intended to hear it. " Poor dear Dobbs is so careless 
with a secret." 

Miss Van Siever explained her motives in a very diflTerent way. 
" I know mamma wonld not let me do it if she knew it, and therefore 
I shall not tell her." 

"My dear Clara,'* said Mrs. Broughton with a smile, "you are so 
outspoken ! " 

"And why not 1" said Miss Van Siever. "I am old enough to 
judge for myself K mamma does not want to be deceived, she 
ought not to treat me Hke a child. Of course she'll find it out sooner 
or later ; but I don't care about that." 

Conway Dalrymple said nothing as the two ladies were thus excusing 

"How delightful it must be not to have a master," said Mrs. 
Broughton, addressing him. 

" But then a man has to work for his own bread," said he. " I sup- 
pose it comes about equal in the long run." 

Very little drawing or painting was done on that day. In the first 
place it was necessary that the question of costume should be settled, 
and both Mrs. Broughton and the artist had much to say on the 
subject. It was considered proper that Jael should be dressed as a 
Jewess, and there came to be much question how Jewesses dressed 
themselves in those early days. Mrs. Broughton had prepared her 
jewels and raiment of many colours, but the painter declared that the 
wife of Heber the Kenite would have no jeWels. But when Mrs. 
Broughton discovered from her Bible that Heber had been connected 
by family ties with Moses, she was more than ever sure that Heber's 
wife would have in her tent much of the spoilings of the Egyptians. 
And when Clara Van Siever suggested that at any rate she would not 
have worn them in a time of confusion when soldiers were loose, flying 
about the country, Mrs. Broughton was quite confident that she 
would have put them on before she invited the captain of the enemy's 
host into her tent The artist at last took the matter into his own 
hand by declaring that Miss Van Siever would sit the subject much 
better without jewels, and therefore all Mrs. Broughton's gewgaws 
were put back into their boxes. And then on four different times the 
two ladies had to retire into Mrs. Broughton's room in order that Jael 
might be arrayed in various costumes, — and in each costume she had 

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JAEL. 359 

to kneel down, taking the hammer in her hand and holding the 
pointed stick which had been prepared to do duty as the nail, upon 
the forehead of a dummy Sisera. At last it was decided that her 
raiment should be altogether white, and that she should wear, twisted 
round her head and falling over her shoulder, a Eoman silk scarf of 
various colours. "Where Jael could have gotten it I don't know," 
said Clara. "You may be sure that there were lots of such things 
among the Egyptians," said Mrs. Broughton, " and that Moses brought 
away all the best for his own family." 

" And who is to be Sisera 1 " asked Mrs. Broughton in one of the 
pauses in their work. 

" Tm thinking of asking my friend John Eames to sit." 

" Of course we cannot sit together," said Miss Yan Siever. 

" There's no reason why you should," said Dalrymple. " I can do 
the second figure in my own room." Then there was a bargain made 
that Sisera should not be a portrait. " It would never do," said Mrs. 
Broughton, shaking her head very gravely. 

Though there was really very little done to the picture on that day, 
the work^ was commenced ; and Mrs. Broughton, who had at first 
objected strongly to the idea, and who had said twenty times that it 
was quite out of the question that it should be done in her house, 
became very eager in her delight about it. Nobody should know 
anything of the picture till it should be exhibited. That would 
be best. And it should be the picture of the year! She was a 
liitle heart-broken when Dalrymple assured her that it could not 
possibly be finished for exhibition in that May; but she came to 
again when he declared that he meant to put out all his strength 
upon it "There will be five or six months* work in it," he said. 
"Will there, indeed] And how much work was there in *The 
Graces T " " The Graces," as will perhaps be remembered, was the 
triple portrait of Mrs. Dobbs Broughton herself. This question the 
artist did not answer with absolute accuracy, but contented himself 
with declaring that with such a model as Mrs. Broughton the picture 
had been comparatively easy. 

Mrs. Broughton, having no doubt that ultimate object of which she 
had spoken to her friend Conway steadily in view, took occasion 
before the sitting was over to leave the room, so that the artist might 
have an opportunity of speaking a word in private to his model, — if 

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he had any such word to speak. And Mrs. Broughton, as she did 
this, felt that she was doing her duty as a wife, a friend, and a Chris- 
tian, She was doing her duty as a wife, hecause she was giving the 
clearest proof in the world, — the clearest at any rate to herself, — that 
the intimacy between herself and her friend Conway had in it nothing 
that was improper. And she was doing her duty as a friend, because 
Clara Van Siever, with her large expectations, would be an eligible 
wife. And she was doing her duty as a Christian, because the whDle 
thing was intended to be moral. Miss Demolines had declared that 
her friend Maria Clutterbuck, — as Miss Demolines delighted to ctll 
Mrs. Broughton, in memory of dear old innocent days, — had high 
principles; and the reader will see that she was justified in her 
declaration. " It will be better so," said Mrs. Broughton, as she sat 
upon her bed and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. " Yes ; it 
will be better so. There is a pang. Of course there's a pang. But 
it will be better so." Acting upon this high principle, she allowed 
Conway Dalrymple five minutes to say what he had to say to Clara 
Van Siever. Then she allowed herself to indulge in some very 
savage feelings in reference to her husband, — accusing her husband in 
her thoughts of great cruelty, — nay, of brutality, because of certain 
sharp words that he had said as to Conway Dalrymple. "But of 
course he can't understand," said Mjs. Broughton to herself. " How 
is it to be expected that he should understand 1 " 

But she allowed her friend on this occasion only five minutes, 
thinking probably that so much might suffice. A woman, when she 
is jealous, is apt to attribute to the other woman with whom her 
jealousy is concerned, both weakness and timidity, and to the man 
both audacity and strength. A woman who has herself taken perhaps 
twelve months in the winning, will think that another woman is to be 
won in five minutes. It is not to be supposed that Mrs. Dobbs 
Broughton had ever been won by any one except by Mr. Dobbs 
Broughton. At least, let it not be supposed that she had ever 
acknowledged a spark of love for Conway Dalrymple. But never- 
theless there was enough of jealousy in her present mood to make her 
think poorly of Miss Van Siever's capacity for standing a siege against 
the artist's eloquence. Otherwise, having left the two together with 
the object which she had acknowledged to herself, she would hardly 
have returned to them after so very short an interval. 

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JAEL. 361 

" I hope you won't dislike the trouble of all this 1 " said Dalrymple 
to his model, as soon as Mrs. Broughton was gone. 

" I cannot say that I like it very much," said Miss Van Siever. 

" I'm afraid it will be a bore ; — ^but I hope you'll go through with 

" I shall if I am not prevented," said Miss Van Siever. " When 
I've said that I'll do a thing I like to do it." 

There was a pause in the conversation which took up a considerable 
portion of the five minutes. Miss Van Siever was not holding her 
nail during these moments, but was sitting in a common-place way on 
her chair, while Dalrymple was scraping his palette. "I wonder 
what it was that first induced you to sit 1 " said he. 

" Oh, I don't know. I took a fancy for it." 

" I'm very glad you did take the fancy. You'll make an excellent 
model. If you won't mind posing again for a few minutes — I will not 
weary you to-day. Your right arm a little more forward." 

** But I should tumble down." 

" Not if you lean well on to the nail." 

** But that would have woken Sisera before she had struck a blow." 

"Never mind that. Let us try it." Then Mrs. Broughton 
returned, with that pleasant feeling in her bosom of having done her 
duty as a wife, a friend, and a Cliristian. " Mrs. Broughton," con- 
tinued the painter, '* just steady Miss Van Siever's shoulder with your 
hand ; and now bring the arm and the elbow a little more forward." 

" But Jael did not have a friend to help her in that way," said Miss 
Van Siever. 

At the end of an hour and a half the two ladies retired, and Jael 
disrobed herself, and Miss Van Siever put on her customary raiment. 
It was agreed among fchem that they had commenced their work 
auspiciously, and that they would meet again on the following 
Monday. The artist begged to be allowed an hour to go on with his 
work in Mrs. Broughton's room, and the hour was conceded to him. 
It was understood that he could not take the canvas backwards and 
forwards with him to his own house, and he pointed out that no pro- 
gress whatever could be made, unless he were occasionally allowed 
some such grace as this. Mrs. Broughton doubted and hesitated, 
made difficulties, and lifted up her hands in despair. "It is easy for 
you to say. Why not 1 but I know very well why not." But at last 

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she gave way. " Honi soit qui mal y pense," she said ; " that must 
be my protection." So she foUowed Miss Van Siever downstairs, 
leaving Mr. Dabymple in possession of her boudoir. "I shall give 
you just one hour," she said, ** and then I shall come and turn you 
out." So she went down, and, as Miss Van Siever would not stay to 
lunch with her, she ate her lunch by herself, sending a glass of sherry 
and a biscuit up to the poor painter at his work. 

Exactly at the end of the hour she returned to him. " Now, Con- 
way, you must go," she said. 

" But why in such a hurry 1 " 

" Because I say that it must be so. When I say so, pray let that 
be sufficient." But still Dairy mple went on working. " Conway," she 
said, " how can you treat me with so much disdain 1 " 

" Disdain, Mrs. Broughton ! " 

" Yes, disdain. Have I not begged you to understand that I cannot 
allow you to remain here, and yet you pay no attention to my wishes." 

" I have done now ; " and he began to put his brushes and paints 
together. " I suppose all these things may remain here ] " 

" Yes ; they may remain. They must do so, of course. There ; if 
you will put the easel in the corner, with the canvas behind it, they 
will not be seen if he should chance to come into the room." 

" He would not be angry, I suppose, if he saw theml" 

" There is no knowing. Men are so unreasonable. All men are, I 
think. All those are whom I have had the fortune to know. Women 
generally say that men are selfish. I do not complain so much that 
they are selfish as that they are thoughtless. They are headstrong, 
and do not look forward to results. Now you, — ^I do not think you 
would willingly do me an injury 1 " 

" I do not think I would." 

" I am sure you would not ; but yet you would forget to save me 
from one." 

*• What injury 1" 

" Oh, never mind. I am not thinking of anything in particular. 
From myself, for instance. But we ^vill not talk about that. That 
way madness lies. Tell me, Conway ; — what do you think of Clara 
Van Siever 1" 

" She is very handsome, certainly." 

"And clever 1" 

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JAEL. 363 

" Decidedly clever. I should think she has a temper of her own." 

" What woman is there worth a straw that has not 1 If Clara Van 
Siever were ill-used, she would resent it. I do not douht that for a 
moment. I should not like to be the man who would do it." 

** Nor I, either," said Conway. 

" But there is plenty of feminine softness in that character, if she 
were treated with love and kindness. Conway, if you will take my 
advice you will ask Clara Van Siever to be your wife. But perhaps 
you have already ] " 

^*Who; I]" 

"Yes; you." 

* I have not done it yet, certainly, Mrs. Broughton." 

" And why should you not do it ] " 

" There are two or three reasons ; — but perhaps none of any great 
importance. Do you know of none, Mrs. Broughton 1 " 

"I know of none," said Mrft Broughton, in a very serious, — in 
almost a tragic tone ; — " of none that should weigh for a moment. As 
far as I am concerned, nothing would give me more pleasure." 

" That is so kind of you ! " 

" I mean to be kind. I do, indeed, Conway. I know it will be 
better for you that you should be settled, — ^very much better. And it 
will be better for me. I do not mind admitting that; though in 
saying so I trust greatly to your generosity to interpret my words 

" I shall not flatter myself, if you mean that." 

" There is no question of flattery, Conway. The question is simply 
of truth and prudence. Do you not know that it would be better that 
you should be married 1 " 

"Not unless a certain gentleman were to die first," said Conway 
Dabymple, as he deposited the last of his painting paraphernalia in 
the recess which had been prepared for them by Mrs. Broughton. 

" Conway, how can you speak in that wicked, wicked way ! " 

" I can assure you I do not wish the gentleman in question the 
slightest harm in the world. If his welfare depended on me, he 
should be as safe as the Bank of England." 

" And you will not take my advice 1 " 

"What advice 1" 

"About Clara?" 

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" Mrs. Broughton, matrimony is a very important thing." 

" Indeed, it is ; — oh, who can say, how important ! There was a 
time, Conway, when I thought you had given your heart to Madalina 

"Heaven forbid!" 

" And I grieved, because I thought that she was not worthy of 

"There was never anything in that, Mrs. Broughton." 

" She thought that there was. At any rate, she said so. I know 
that for certain. She told me so herself. But let that pass. Clara 
Van Siever is in every respect very different from Madalina. Clara, 
I think, is worthy of you. And, Conway, — of course it is not for me 

to dictate to you ; but this I must tell you ^" Then she paused, 

as though she did not know how to finish her sentence. 

" What must you tell me 1 " 

" I will tell you nothing more. If you cannot understand what I 
have said, you must be more didl of comprehension than I believe you 
to be. ITow go. Why are you not gone this half-hour % " 

" How could I go while you were giving me aU this good advice 1 " 

"I have not asked you to stay. Go now, at any rate. And, 
remember, Conway, if this picture is to go on, I will not have you 
remaining here after the work is done. Will you remember that % " 
And she held him by the hand while he declared that he would 
remember it. 

Mrs. Dobbs Broughton was no more in love with Conway Dalrymple 
than she was in love with King Charles on horse-back at Charing Cross. 
And, over and beyond the protection which came to her in the course 
of nature from unimpassioned feelings in this special phase of her 
life, — and indeed, I may say, in every phase of her life, — it must be 
acknowledged on her behalf that she did enjoy that protection which 
comes from what we call principle, — though the principle was not 
perhaps very high of its kind. Madalina Demolines had been right 
when she talked of her friend Maria's principles. Dobbs Broughton 
had been so far lucky in that jump in the dark which he made in 
taking a wife to himself, that he had not fallen upon a really vicious 
woman, or upon a woman of strong feeling. If it had come to be the 
lot of Mrs. Dobbs Broughton to have six hours' work to do every day 
of her life, I think that the work would have been done badly, but 

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JAEL. 365 

that it would have kept her free from all danger, ^s it was she had 
nothing to do. She had no child. She was not given to much reading. 
She could not sit with a needle in her hand all day. She had no 
aptitude for May mjeetings, or the excitement of charitahle good works, 
life with her was very dull, and she found no amusement within her 
reach so easy and so pleasant as the amusement of pretending to he in 
love. If all that she did and all that she said could only have been taken 
for its worth and for nothing more, by the different persons concerned, 
there was very little in it to flatter Mr. Dalrymple or to give cause for 
tribulation to Mr. Broughton. She probably cared but little for either 
of them. She was one of those women to whom it is not given by 
nature to care very much for anybody. But, of the two, she certainly 
cared the most for Mr. Dobbs Broughton, — ^because Mr. Dobbs 
Broughton belonged to her. As to leaving Mr. Dobbs Broughton's 
house, and putting herself into the hands of another man, — no Imogen 
of a wife was ever less likely to take a step so wicked, so dangerous, 
and so generally disagreeable to all the parties concerned. 

But Conway Dalrymple, — though now and again he had got a side- 
glance at her true character with clear-seeing eyes, — did allow himself 
to be flattered and deceived. He knew that she was foolish and 
ignorant, and that she often talked wonderful nonsense. He knew 
that she was continually contradicting herself, — as when she would 
strenuously beg him to leave her, while she would continue to talk to 
him in a strain that prevented the possibility of his going. But, 
nevertheless, he was flattered, and he did believe that she loved him. 
As to his love for her, — he knew very well that it amounted to nothing. 
Kow and again, perhaps twice a week, if he saw her as often, he would 
say something which would imply a declaration of affection. He felt 
that as much as that was expected from him, and that he ought not to 
hope to get off cheaper. And now that this little play was going on 
about Miss Van Siever, he did think that Mrs. Dobbs Broughton was 
doing her very best to overcome an unfortunate attachment. It is so 
gratifying to a young man's feelings to suppose that another man's wife 
has conceived an unfortunate attachment for him ! Conway Dalrymple 
ought not to have been fooled by such a woman ; but he was fooled by 

As he returned home to-day from Mrs. Broughton's. house to his own 
lodgings he rambled out for a while into Kensington Gardens, and 

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thought of his position seriously. "I don't see why I should not 
marry her," he said to himself, thinking of course of Miss Van Siever. 
" K Maria is not in earnest it is not my fault. And it would be my 
wish that she should be in earnest. If I suppose her to be so, and take 
her at her word, she^ can have no righj to quarrel with me. Poor Maria ! 
at any rate it will be better for her, for no good can come of this kind 
of thing. And, by heavens, with a woman like that, of strong feelings, 
one never knows what may happen." And then he thought of the 
condition he would be in, if he were to find her some fine day in his 
own rooms, and if she were to tell him that she could not go home 
again, and that she meant to remain with him 1 

In the mean time Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had gone down into her 
own drawing-room, had tucked herself up on the sofa^ and had fallen 
fast asleep. 



John Eames sat at his office on the day after his return to London, and 
answered the various letters which he had found waiting for him at his 
lodgings on the previous evening. To Miss Demolines he had already 
written from his club, — a single line, which he considered to be 
appropriate to the mysterious necessities of the occasion. " I will be 
with you at a quarter to six to-morrow. — J. E. Just returned." There 
was not another word ; and as he scrawled it at one of the dub tables 
while two or three men were talking to him, he^felt rather proud of his 
correspondence. • " It was capital fun," he said ; " and after all," — ^the 
"all" on this occasion being Lily Dale, and the sadness of his disap- 
pointment at Allington, — " after all, let a fellow be ever so down in the 
mouth, a little amusement would do him good." And he reflected 

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fxirther that the more a fellow be " down in the mouth," the more good 
the amusement would do him. He sent off his note, therefore, with 
some little inward rejoicing, — and a word or two also of spoken rejoicing. 
" What fun women are sometimes," he said to one of his friends, — a 
friend with whom he was very intimate, calling him always Fred, and 
slapping his back, but whom he never by any chance saw out of his 

** What's up now, Johnny ] Some good fortune 1 " 

" Good fortune ; no. I never have good fortunes of that kind. But 
I've got hold of a young WMnan, — or rather a young woman has got 
hold of me, who insists on having a mystery with me. In the mystery 
itseK there is not the slightest interest. But the mysteriousness of it 
is charming. I have just written to her three words to settle an appoint- 
ment for to-morrow. We don't sign our names lest the Postmaster- 
Creneral should find out all about it." 

" Is she pretty ? " 

"Well; — she isn't ugly. She has just enough of good looks to 
make the sort of thing pass off pleasantly. A mystery with a down- 
right ugly young woman would be unpleasant" 

After this fashion the note from Miss Demolines had been received 
and answered at once, but the other letters remained in his pocket till 
he reached his office on the following morning. Sir Baffle had begged 
him to be there at half-past nine. This he had sworn he would not do ; 
but he did seat himself in his room at ten minutes before ten, finding 
of course the whole building untenanted at that early hour, — that 
unearthly hour, as Johnny called it himself. " I shouldn't wonder if 
he really is here this morning," Johnny said, as he entered the building, 
"just that he may have an opportunity of jumping on me." But Sir 
Baffle was not there, and then Johnny began to abuse Sir Baffle. " If 
ever I come here early to meet him again, because he says he means to 

be here himself, I hope I may be ^blessed." On that especial 

morning it was twelve before Sir Baffle made his appearance, and 
Johnny avenged himself, — ^I regret to have to tell it, — by a fib. That 
Sir Baffle fibbed first, was no valid excuse whatever for Eames. 

" I've been at it ever since six o'clock,'* said Sir Baffle. 

"At what?" said Johnny. 

"Work, to be sure; — and very hard work too. I believe the 
Chancellor of the Exchequer thinks that he can call upon me to any 

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extent that he pleases ; — just any extent that he pleases. He doesn't 
give me credit for a desire to have a single hour to myself." 

"What would he do, Sir Raffle, if you were to get ill, or wear 
yourself out 1" 

" He .knows Fm not one of the wearing-out sort. You got my note 
last night?" 

" Yes ; I got your note." 

" I*m sorry that I troubled you ; but I couldn't help it. I didn't 
expect to get a box full of papers at eleven o'clock last night." 

" You didn't put me out, Sir Raffle ; I happened to have business of 
my own which prevented the possibility of my being here early." 

This was the way in which John Eames avenged himself. Sir Raffle 
turned his face upon his private secretary, and his face was very black. 
Johnny bore the gaze without dropping an eyelid. " I'm not going to 
stand it, and he may as well know that at once," Johnny said to one 
of his friends in the office afterwards. " If he ever wants anything 
really done, I'll do it ; — though it should take me twelve hours at a 
stretch. But I'm not going to pretend to believe all the lies he teUs 
me about the Chancellor of the Exchequer. If that is to be part of the 
private secretary's business, he had better get somebody else." But 
now Sir Raffle was very angry, and his countenance was full of wrath 
as he looked down upon his subordinate minister, " If I had come 
here, Mr. Eames, and had found you absent, I should have been very 
much annoyed, — very much annoyed indeed, after having written as I 

" You would have found me absent at the hour you named. As I 
wasn't here then, I think it's only fair to say so." 

" I'm afraid you begrudge yoiir time to the service, Mr. Eames." 

** I do begrudge it when the service doesn't want it." 

" At your age, Mr. Eames, that's not for you to judge. If I had 
acted in that way when I was young I should never have filled the 
position I now hold. I always remembered in those days that as I 
was the hand and not the head, I was bound to hold myself in readiness 
whether work might be required from me or not." 

" If I'm wanted as hand now. Sir Raffle, I'm ready." 

" That's all very well ; — ^but why were you not here at the hour I 

" Well, Sir Raffle, I cannot say that the Chancellor of the Exchequer 

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detained me ; — but there was business. As IVe been here for the last 
two hours, I am happy to think that in this instance the public service 
will not have suffered from my disobedience." 

Sir Raffle was still standing with his hat on, and with his back to the 
fire, and his countenance was full of wrath. It was on his tongue to 
tell Johnny that he had better return to his former work in the outer 
office. He greatly wanted the comfort of a private secretary who would 
believe in him, — or at least pretend to believe in him. There are men 
who, though they have not sense enough to be true, have nevertheless 
sense enough to know that they cannot expect to be really believed in 
by those who are near enough to them to know them. Sir Raffle Buffle 
was such a one. He would have greatly delighted in the services of 
some one who would trust him implicitly, — of some young man who 
would really believe all that he said of himself and of the Chancellor 
of the Exchequer ; but he was wise enough to perceive that no such 
young man was to be had ; or that any such young man, — could such 
a one be found, — would be absolutely useless for any purposes of work. 
He knew himself to be a liar whom nobody trusted. And he knew 
himself also to be a bully, — though he could not think so low of him- 
self as to believe that he was a bully whom nobody feared. A private 
secretary was at the least bound to pretend to believe in him. There 
is a decency in such things, and that decency John Eames did not 
observe. He thought that he must get rid of John Eames, in spite of 
certain attractions which belonged to Johnny's appearance and general 
manners, and social standing, and reputed wealth. But it would not 
be wise to punish a man on the spot for breaking an appointment which 
he himself had not kept, and therefore he would wait for another 
opportunity. " You had better go to your own room now," he said. 
** r am engaged on a matter connected with the Treasury in which I 
will not ask for your assistance." He knew that Eames would not 
believe a word as to what he said about the Treasury, — not even some 
very trifling base of truth which did exist ; but the boast gave him an 
opportunity of putting an end to the interview after his own fashion. 
Then John Eames went to his own room and answered the letters which 
he had in his pocket. 

To the club dinner he would not go. " What's the use of paying 
two guineas for a dinner with fellows you see every day of your life 1 " 
he said. To Lady Glencora's he would go, and he wrote a line to his 


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friend Dalrymple proposing that they should go together. And he 
would dine with his cousin Toogood in Tavistock Square. " One meets 
the queerest people in the world there," he said ; " but Tommy Toogood 
is such a good fellow himself 1 '' After that he had his lunch. Then 
he read the paper, and before he went away he wrote a dozeu or two 
of private notes, presenting Sir Baffle's compHments right and left, and 
giving in no one note a single word of information that could be of 
any use to any person. Having thus earned his salary by half-past 
four o'clock he got into a hansom cab and had himself driven to 
Porchester Terrace. Miss Demolines was at home, of course, and he 
soon found himself closeted with that interesting young woman. 

"I thought you never would have come." These were the first 
words she spoke. 

" My dear Miss Demolines, you must not forget that I have my 
bread to earn." 

" Fiddlestick, — bread ! As if I didn't know thftt. you can get away 
from your office when you choose." 

"But, indeed, I cannot." 

" What is there to prevent you, Mr. Eames 1 '' 

" I'm not tied up like a dog, certainly ; but who do you suppose 
will do my work if I do not do it myself? It is a fact, though the 
world does not believe it, that men in public offices have got something 
to do." 

" Now you are laughing at me, I know ; but you are welcome, if 
you like it. It's the way of the world just at present that ladies should 
submit to that sort of thing from gentlemen." 

" What sort of thing, Miss Demolines 1 " 

" Chaff, — as you call it. Courtesy is out of fashion, and gallantry 
has come to signify quite a different kind of thing from what it used 
to do." 

" The Sir Charles Grandison business is done and gone. That's what 
you mean, I suppose 1 Don't you think we should find it very heavy 
if we tried to get it back again % " 

"I'm not going to ask you to be a Sir Charles Grandison, Mr. 
Eames. But never mind all that now. Do you know that that girl 
has absolutely had her first sitting for the picture 1 " 

" Has she, indeed 1" 

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" She has. You may take my word for it I know it as a fact. 
What a fool that young man is ! " 

" Which young man 1 " 

" Which young man ! Conway Dalrymple to be sure. Artists are 
always weak. Of all men in the world they are the most subject to 
flattery from women ; and we all know that Conway Dalrymple is 
very vain." 

" Upon my word I didn't know it," said Johnny. 

" Yes, you do. You must know it. When a man goes about in a 
purple velvet coat of course he is vain." 

" I certainly cannot defend a purple velvet coat.** 

" That is what he wore when this girl sat to him this morning." 

" This morning was it 1 " 

" Yea ; this morning. They little think that they can do nothing 
without my knowing it. He was there for nearly four hours, and she 
was dressed up in a white robe as Jael, with a turban on her head. 
Jael, indeed ! I caD it very improper, and I am quite astonished that 
Maria Clutterbuck should have lent herself to such a piece of work. 
That Maria was never very wise, of course we all know ; but I thought 
that she had principle enough to have kept her from this kind of 

" It's her fevered existence," said Johnny. 

^'That is just it. She must have excitement. It is like dram- 
drinking. And then, you know, they are always liviog in the crater 
of a volcano." 

" Who are living in the crater of a volcano 1 " 

" The Dobbs Broughtons are. Of course they are. There is no saying 
what day a smash may come. These City people get so used to it that 
they enjoy it. The risk is everything to them." 

" They like to have a little certainty behind the risk, I fancy." 

" I'm afraid there is very little that's certain with Dobbs Broughton. 
But about this picture, Mr. Eames. I look to you to assist me there. 
It must be put a stop to. As to that I am determined. It must be — 
put a — stop to." And as Miss Demolines repeated these last words 
with tremendous emphasis she lent with both her elbows on a little 
table that stood between her and her visitor, and looked with all her 
eyes into his face. " I do hope that you agree with me in that," 
said she. 

BB 2 

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" Upon my word I do not see the harm of the picture/' said he. 

"You do not]" 

" Indeed, no. Why should not Dalrymple paint Miss Van Siever 
as well as any other lady? It is his special business to paint 

" Look here, Mr. Eames ^" And now Miss Demolines, as she 

spoke, drew her own seat closer to that of her companion and pushed 
away the little table. " Do you suppose that Conway Dahymple, in 
the usual way of his business, paints pictures of young ladies, of which 
their mothers know nothing ] Do you suppose that he paints them 
in ladies' rooms without their husbands' knowledge? And in the 
common way of his business does he not expect to be paid for his 
pictures ? " 

" But what is all that to you and me. Miss Demolines ? " 

** Is the welfare of your friend nothing to you ? Would you like 
to see him become the victim of the artihce of such a girl as Clara Yan 
Siever 1" 

"Upon my word I think he is very well able to take care of 

" And would you wish to see that poor creature's domestic hearth 
ruined and broken up ] " 

" Which poor creature 1 " 

'* Dobbs Broughton, to be sure." 

** I can't pretend that I care very much for Dobbs Broughton," said 
John Eames ; " and you see I know so little about his domestic 

" Oh, Mr. Eames 1 " 

" Besides, her principles will pull her through. Tou told me yourself 
that Mrs. Broughton has high principles." 

" God forbid that I should say a word against Maria Clutterbuck," 
said Miss Demolines, fervently. " Maria Clutterbuck was my early 
friend, and though words have been spoken which never should have 
been spoken, and though things have been done which never should 
have been even dreamed of, still I will not desert Maria Clutterbuck 
in her hour of need. No, never ! " 

" I'm sure you're what one may call a trump to your friends. Miss 

" I have always endeavoured to be so, and always shall You will 

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find me so ; that is, if you and I ever become intimate enough to feel 
that sort of friendship/' 

" There's nothing on earth I should like better," said Johnny. As 
soon as the words were out of his mouth he felt ashamed of himself. 
He knew that he did not in truth desire the friendship of Miss 
Demolines, and that any 'friendship with such a one would mean 
something different from friendship, — something that would be an 
injury to Lily Daje. A week had hardly passed since he had sworn 
a life's constancy to Lily Dale, — had sworn it, not to her only, but 
to himself ; and now he w|is giving way to a flirtation with this woman, 
not because he liked it himself, but because he was too weak to keep 
out of it. 

*' If that is true ," said Miss Demolines. 

" Oh, yes ; it's quite true," said Johnny. 

" Then you must earn my friendship by doing what I ask of you. 
That picture must not be painted. You must tell Conway Dalrymple 
as his friend that he must cease to carry on such an intrigue in another 
man's house." 

"You would hardly call painting a picture an intrigue; would 

" Certainly I would when it's kept a secret from the husband by 
the wife, — and from the mother by the daughter. If it cannot be 
stopped in any other way, I must tell Mrs. Van Siever ; — ^I must, 
indeed. I have such an abhorrence of the old woman, that I could not 
bring myself to speak to her, — but I should write to her. That's what 
I should do." 

" But what's the reason 1 You might as well tell me the real reason." 
Had Miss Demolines been christened Mary, or Fanny, or Jane, I think 
that John Eames would now have called her by either of those names ; 
but Madalina was such a mouthful that he could not bring himself to 
use it at once. He had heard that among her intimates she was called 
Maddy. He had an idea that he had heard Dalrymple in old times 
talk of her as Maddy Mullins, and just at this moment the idea was 
not pleasant to him; at any rate he could not call her Maddy as 
yet. " How am I to help you," he said, " unless I know all about 

" I hate that girl like poison ! " said Miss Demolines, confidentially, 
drawing herself very near to Johnny as she spoke. 

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" But 'what has she done ? " 

" What has she done ? I can't tell you what she has done. I could 
not demean myself by repeating it. Of course we all know what she 
wants. She wants to catch Conway Dalrymple. That's as plain as 
anything can be. Not that I care about that." 

" Of course not," said Johnny. 

" Not in the least. It's nothing to me. I have known Mr. 
Dalrymple, no doubt, for a year or two, and I should be sorry to see a 
young man who has his good points sacrificed in that sort of way. But 
it is mere acquaintance between Mr. Dalrymple and me, and of course 
1 cannot interfere." 

" She'll have a lot of money, you know." 

*' He thinks so ; does he 1 I suppose that is what Maria has told 
him. Oh, Mr. Eames, you don't know the meanness of women ; you 
don't, indeed. Men are so much more noble." 

" Are they, do you think 1 " 

" Than some women. I see women doing things that really disgust 
me ; I do, indeed ; — things that I wouldn't do myself, were it ever so; 
' — striving to catch men in every possible way, and for such purposes ! 
I wouldn't have believed it of Maria Clutterbuck. I wouldn't, indeed. 
However, I will never say a word against her, because she has been my 
friend. Nothing shall ever induce me." 

John Eames, before he left Porchester Terrace, had at last succeeded 
in calling his fair friend Madalina, and had promised that he would 
endeavour to open the artist's eyes to the folly of painting his pictures 
in BroTighton's house without Broughton's knowledge. 

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A DAT or two after the interview which was described in the Mst 
chapter John Eames din^d with his uncle Mr. Thomas Toogood, in 
Tavistock Square. He was in the habit of doing this about once a 
month, and was a great favourite both with his cousins and with their 
mother. Mr. Toogood did not give dinner-parties; always begging 
those whom he asked to enjoy his hospitality, to take pot-luck, and 
telling young men whom he could treat with familiarity, — such as his 
nephew, — ^that if they wanted to be regaled h. la Russe they must not 
come to number 75, Tavistock Square. " A leg of mutton and trim- 
mings ; that will be about the outside of it," he would say ; but he 
would add in a whisper, — " and a glass of port such as you don't get 
every day of your life." Polly and Lucy Toogood were pretty girls, 
and merry withal, and certain young men were well contented to accept 
the attorney's invitations, — whether attracted by the promised leg of 
mutton, or the port-wine, or the young ladies, I will not attempt to 
say. But it had so happened that one young man, a clerk from John 
^Eames' office, had partaken so often of the pot-luck and port-wine that 
Polly Toogood had conquered him by her charms, and he was now a 
slave, waiting an appropriate time for matrimonial sacrifice. William 
Summerkin was the young man's name ; and as it was known that Mr. 
Summerkin was to inherit a fortune amounting to five thousand pounds 
from his maiden aunt, it was considered that Polly Toogood was not 
doing amiss. " I'll give you three hundred pounds, my boy, just to put 
a few sheets on the beds," said Toogood the father, " and when the old 
birds are both dead she'll have a thousand pounds out of the nest. 
That's the extent of Polly's fortune ; — so now you know." Summerkin 
was, however, quite contented to have his own money settled on his 
darling Polly, and the whole thing was looked at with pleasant and 
propitious eyes by the Toogood connection. 

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When John Eames entered the dm wing-room Summerkiu and Polly 
were already there. Summerkin blushed up to his eyes, of course, but 
Polly sat as demurely as though she had been accustomed to having 
lovers all her life. " Mamma will be down almost immediately, John," 
said Polly as soon aa the first greetings were over, " and papa has come 
in, I know." 

" Summerkin," said Johnny, " I'm afraid you left the office before 
four o'clock." 

" No, I did not," said Summerkin. ** I deny it." 

" Polly," said her cousin, " you should keep him in better order. 
He will certainly come to grief if he goes on like this. I suppose you 
could do without him for half-an-hour ? " 

" I don't want him, I can assure you," said !l^olly. 

** I have only been here just five minutes," said Summerkin, " and 
I came because Mrs. Toogood asked me to do a commission." 

" That's civil to you, Polly," said John. 

" It's quite as civil as I wish him to be,** said Polly. " And as for 
you, John, everybody knows that you're a goose, and that you always 
were a goose. Isn't he always doing foolish things at the office, 
William 1" But as John Eames was rather a great man at the 
Income-tax Office, Summerkin would not fall into his sweetheart's joke 
on this subject, finding it easier and perhaps safer to twiddle the bodkins 
in Polly's work-basket. Then Toogood and Mrs. Toogood entered the 
room together, and the lovers were able to be alone again during the 
general greeting with vfhich Johnny was welcomed. , 

" You don't know the Silverbridge people, — do you ? " asked Mr. 
Toogood. Eames said that he did not. He had been at ^Silverbridge 
more than once, but did not know very much of the Silverbridgians. 
" Because Walker is coming to dine here. Walker is the leading man 
in Silverbridge." 

'*And what is Walker; — besides being leading man in Silver- 

" He's a lawyer. Walker and Winthrop. Everybody knows 
Walker in Barsetshire. I've been down at Barchester since I saw 

" Have you indeed 1 " said Johnny. 

" And I'll tell you what I've been about. You know Mr. Crawley ; 
don't you % " 

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" The Hogglestock clergyman that has come to grief ] I don't know 
him personally. He's a sort of cousin by marriage, you know." 

" Of course he is," said Mr. Toogood. ** His wife is my first-cousin, 
and your mother's first-cousin. He came here to me the other day ; — 
or rather to the shop. I had never seen the man before in my life, 
and a very queer fellow he is too. He came to me about this trouble 
of his, and of course I must do what I can for him. I got myself 
introduced to Walker, who has the management of the prosecution, 
and I asked him to come here and dine to-day." 

" And what sort of fellow did you find Crawley, uncle Tom 1 " 

" Such a queer fish ; — so unlike anybody else in the world ! " 

'* But I suppose he did take the money ] " said Johnny. 

" I don't know what to say about it. I don't indeed. If he took 
it he didn't mean to steal it. I'm as sure that man didn't mean to 
steal twenty pounds as I ever could be of anything. Perhaps I shall 
get something about it out of Walker after dinner." Then Mr. Walker 
entered the room. "This is very kind of you, Mr. Walker; very, 
indeed. I take it quite as a compliment, ypur coming in in this sort 
of way. It's just pot-luck, you know, and nothing else." Mr. Walker 
cf course assured his host that he was delighted. " Just a leg of mutton 
and a bottle of old port, Mr. Walker," continued Toogood. " We never 
get beyond that in the way of dinner-giving ; do we, Maria 1 " 

But Maria was at this moment descanting on the good luck of the 
family to her nephew, — and on one special piece of good luck which 
had just occurred. Mr. Summerkin's maiden. aunt had declared her 
intention of giving up the fortune to the young people at once. She 
had enough to li«re upon, she said, and would therefore make two 
lovers happy. " And they're to be married on the first of May," said 
Lucy, — that Lucy of whom her father had boasted to Mr. Crawley 
that she knew Byron by heart, — " and won't that be jolly ] Mamma 
is going out to look for a house for them to-morrow. Fancy Polly with 
a house of her own ! Won't it be stunning % I wish you T^ere going 
to be married too, Johnny." 

" Don't be a fool, Lucy." 

" Of course I know that you are in love. I hope you are not going 
to give over being in love, Johnny, because it is such fun." 

" Wait till you're caught yourself, my girL" 

" I don't mean to be caught till some great swell comes this way. 

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And as great swells never do come into Tavistock Square, I shan't 
have a chance. Til tell you what I would like ; Pd like to have a 
Corsair, — or else a Giaour ;— I think a Giaour would he nicest. Only 
a Giaour wouldn't he a Giaour here, you know. Fancy a lover * Who 
thundering comes on blackest steed, With slackened bit and hoof of 
speed.' Were not those the days to live in ! But all that is over now, 
you know, and young people take houses in Woburn Place, instead of 
being locked up, or drowned, or married to a hideous monster behind 
a veiL I suppose it's better as it is, for some reasons." 

" I think it must be more jolly, as you call it, Lucy." 

" I'm not quite sure. I know I'd go back and be Medora, if I could. 
Mamma is always telling Polly that she must be careful about 
William's dinner. But Conrad didn't care for his dinner. * Light 
toil 1 to cull and dress thy frugal fare 1 See, I have plucked the fruit 
that promised best.' " 

" And how often do you think Conrad got drunk ] " 

" I don't think he got drunk at all. There is no reason why he 
should, any more than William. Come along, and take me down to 
dinner. After all, papa's leg of mutton is better than Medora's apples, 
when one is as hungry as I am.". 

The leg of mutton on this occasion consisted of soup, fish, and a bit 
of roast beef, and a couple of boiled fowls. "If I had only two 
children instead of twelve, Mr. Walker," said the host, " I'd give you 
a dinner k la Russe." 

" I don't begrudge Mrs. Toogood a single arrow in her quiver on 
that score," said Mr. Walker. 

" People are getting to be so luxurious that one can't live up to them 
at all," said Mrs. Toogood. " We dined out here with some new comers 
in the square only last week. We had asked them before, and flhey 
came quite in a quiet way, — just like this ; and when we got there we 
found they'd four kinds of ices after dinner ! '* 

" And not a morsel of food on the table fit to eat," said Toogood. " I 
never was so poisoned in my life. As for soup, — it was just the 
washings of the pastrycook's kettle next door." 

" And how is one to live with such people, Mr. Walker % " continued 
Mrs. Toogood. " Of course we can't ask them back again. We can't 
give them four kinds of ices." 

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'' But would that be necessary ] Perhaps they haven't got twelve 

" They haven't got any," said Toogood, triumphing ; " not a chick 
belonging to them. But you see one must do as other people do. I 
bate anything grand. I wouldn't want more than this for myself, if 
bank-notes were as plenty as curl-papers." 

"Nobody has any curl-papers now, papa," said Lucy. 

" But I can't bear to be outdone," said Mr. Toogood. " I think it's 
very unpleasant, — people living in that sort of way. It's all very well 
telling me that I needn't live so too ; — and of course I don't. I can't 
afford to have four men in from the confectioner's, dressed a sight 
better than myself, at ten shillings a head. I can't afford it, and I 
don't do it. But the worst of it is that I suffer beaiuse other people 
do it. It stands to reason that I must either be driven along with the 
crowd, or else be left behind. Kow, I don't like either. And what's 
the end of it] Why, I'm half carried away and half left behind." 

" Upon my word, papa, I don't think you're carried away at all," 
said Lucy. 

" Yes, I am ; and I'm ashamed of myself. Mr. Walker, I don't 
dare to ask you to drink a glass of wine with me in my own house, — 
that's what I don't, — because it's the proper thing for you to wait till 
somebody brings it you, and then to drink it by yourself. There is 
no knowing whether I mightn't offend you." And Mr. Toogood as he 
spoke grasped the decanter at his elbow. Mr. Walker grasped another 
at his elbow, and the two attorneys took their glass of wine together. 

" A very queer case this is of my cousin Crawley's," said Toogood to 
Walker, when the ladies had left the dining-room. 

" A most distressing case, I never knew anything so much talked 
of in our part of the country," 

" He can't have been a popular man, I should say % " 

" iKTo ] not popular, — ^not in the ordinary way ; — anything but that. 
Nobody knew him personally before this matter came up." 

" But a good clergyman, probably % Fm interested in the case, of 
course, as his wife is my first-cousin. You will understand, however, 
that I know nothing of him. My father tried to be civil to him once, 
but Crawley wouldn't have it at alL We all thought he was mad then. 
I suppose he has done his duty in his parish % " 

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" He has quarrelled with the bishop, you know, — out and out." 

" Has he, indeed ] But I'm not sure that I think so very much 
about bishops, Mr. Walker." 

" That depends very much on the particular bishop. Some people 
say ours isn't all that a bishop ought to be, while others are very fond 
of him." 

" And Mr. Crawley belongs to the former set ; that's all ] " said Mr. 

" No, Mr. Toogood ; that isn't all. The worst of your cousin is that 
he has an aptitude to quarrel with everybody. He is one of those 
men who always think themselves to be ill-used. Now our dean, Dr, 
Arabin, has been his very old friend, — and as far as I can learn, a 
very good friend ; but it seems that Mr. Crawley has done his best 
to quarrel with him too." 

" He spoke of the dean in the highest terms to me." 

** He may do that, — and yet quayrel with him. He*d quarrel with 
his own right hand, if he had nothing else to quarrel with. That makes 
the difl&culty, you see. Hell take nobody's advice. He thinks that 
we're all against him." 

" I suppose the world has been heavy on him, Mr. Walker ] " 

" The world has been very heavy on him," said John Eames, who 
had now been left free to join the conversation, Mr. Summerkin having 
gone away to his lady-love, " You must not judge him as you do other 

" That is just it," said Mr. Walker. " And to what result will that 
bring us 1 " 

" That we ought to stretch a point in his favour," said Toogood. 

" But why ] " asked the attorney from Silverbridge. " What do we 
mean when we say that one man isn't to be trusted as another? We 
simply imply that he is not what we call responsible." 

** And I don't think Mr. Crawley is responsible," said Johnny. 

" Then how can he be fit to have charge of a parish ] " said Mr. 
Walker. " You see where the difficulty is ; — how it embarrasses one 
aU round! The amount of evidence as to the cheque is, I think, 
sufficient to get a verdict in an ordinary case, and the Crown has no 
alternative but so to treat it. Then his friends come forward, — and 
from sympathy with his sufferings, I desire to be ranked among the 
number, — and say, * Ah, but you should spare this man, because he is 

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not responsible/ "Were lie one who filled no position requiring special 
responsibility, that might be very well. His friends might undertake 
to look after him, and the prosecution might perhaps be smothered. 
But Mr. Crawley holds a living, and if he escape he will be triumphant, 
— especially triumphant over the bishop. Now, if he has really taken 
this money, and if his only excuse be that he did not know when he 
took it whether he was stealing or whether he was not, — for the sake 
of justice that ought not to be allowed." So spoke Mr. Walker. 

** You think he certainly did steal the money ? " said Johnny. 

" You have heard the evidence, no doubt ] " said Mr. Walker. 

" I don't feel quite sure about it yet," said Mr. Toogood. 

" Quite sure of what 1 " said Mr. Walker. 

'* That the cheque was dropped in his house." 

" It was at any rate traced to his hands." 

" I have no doubt about that," said Toogood. 

" And he can't account for it," said Walker. 

" A man isn't bound to show where he got his money," said Johnny, 
** Suppose that sovereign is marked," and Johnny produced a coin from 
his pocket, " and I don't know but what it is ; and suppose it is proved 
to have belonged to some one who lost it, and then to be traced to my 
hands, — ^how am I to say where I got it ] If I were asked, I should 
simply decline to answer." 

" But a cheque is not a sovereign, Mr. Eames," said Walker. . " It 
is presumed that a man can account for the possession of a cheque. It 
may be that a man should have a cheque in his possession and not be 
able to account for it, and should yet be open to no grave suspicion. 
In such a case a jury has to judge. Here is the fact ; that Mr. Crawley 
has the cheque, and brings it into use some considerable time after it 
is drawn ; and the additional fact that the drawer of the cheque had 
lost it, as he thought, in Mr. Crawley's house, and had looked for it 
there, soon after it was drawn, and long before it was paid. A jury 
must jud^e ; but as a lawyer, I should say that the burden of disproof 
lies with Mr. Crawley." 

'^ Did you find out anything, Mr. Walker," said Toogood, " about the 
man who drove Mr. Soames that day % " 

" No,— nothing." 

" The trap was from * The Dragon ' at Barchester, I think ] " 

« Yes,— from * The Dragon of Wantly.' " 

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" A respectable sort of house 1 " 

" Pretty well for that, I believe. IVe heard that t^e people are 
poor," said Mr. Walker. 

** Somebody told me that they'd had a queer lot about the house, and 
that three or four of them left just then. I think I heard that two or 
three men from the place went to New Zealand together. It just'came 
out in conversation while I was in the inn-yard.'* 

" I have never heard anything of it,** said Mr. Walker. 

" I don't say that it can help us." 

" I don't see that it can," said Mr. Walker. 

After that there was a pause, and Mr. Toogood pushed about the old 
port, and made some very stinging remarks as to the claret-drinking 
propensities of the age. " Gladstone claret the most of it is, I fancy," 
said Mr. Toogood. " I find that port-wine which my father bought in 
the wood five-and-twenty years ago is good enough for me." Mr. 
Walker said that it was quite good enough for him, almost too good, 
and that he thought that he had had enough of it. The host threatened 
another bottle, and was up to draw the cork, — rather to the satisfaction 
of John Eames, who liked his uncle's port, — but Mr. Walker stopped 
him. *^ Not a drop more for me," he said. 

" You are quite sure 1 " 

" Quite sure." And Mr. Walker moved towards the door. 

" It's a great pity, Mr. Walker," said Toogood, going back to the old 
subject, " that this dean and his wife should be away." 

" I understand that they will both be home before the trial," said 
Mr. Walker. 

"Yes,— but you know how very important it is to learn beforehand 
exactly what your witnesses can prove and what they can't prove. 
And moreover, though neither the dean nor his wife might perhaps be 
able to tell us anything themselves, they might help to put us on the 
proper scent. I ttiink I'll send somebody after them. I think I wilL" 

" It would be a heavy expense, Mr. Toogood." 

** Yes," said Toogood, mournfully, thinking of the twelve children ; 
" it would be a heavy expense. But I never like to stick at a thing 
when it ought to be done. I think I shall send a fellow after them." 

"I'll go," said Johnny. 

" How can you go ? " 

"I'll make old Snuffle give me leave." 

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" Bat will that lessen the expense] " said Mr. Walker. 

" Well, yes, I think it will," said John, modestly. 

" My nephew is a rich man, Mr. Walker," said Toogood. 

" That alters the caae," said Mr. Walker. And thus, before they 
left the dining-room, it was settled that John Eames should be taught 
his lesson and should seek both Mrs. Arabin and Dr. Arabin on theit 



On the morning after his return from London Mr. Crawley showed 
symptoms of great fatigue, and his wife implored him to remain in bed. 
But this he would not do. He would get up, and go out down to the 
brickfields. He had specially bound himself, he said, to see that the 
duties of the parish did not suffer by being left in his hands. The 
bishop had endeavoured to place them in other hands, but he had per- 
sisted in retaining theuL As he had done so he could allow no weari- 
ness of his own to interfere, — and especially no weariness induced by 
labours undertaken on his own behalf. The day in the week had come 
round on which it was his wont to visit the brickmakers, and he would 
visit them. So he dragged himself out of his bed and went forth 
amidst the cold storm of a harsh wet March morning. His wife well 
knew when she heard his first word on that morning that one of those 
terrible moods had come upon him which made her doubt whether she 
ought to allow him to go anywhere alone. Latterly there had been 
some improvement in his mental health. Since the day of his encounter 
with the bishop and Mrs. Proudie, though he had been as stubborn as 
ever, he had been less apparently unhappy, less depressed in spirits. 

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And tbfe journey to London had done him good. His wife had con- 
gratulated herself on finding him able to set about his work like another 
man, and he himself had experienced a renewal, if not of hope, at any 
rate, of courage, which had given him a comfort which he had recognized. 
His common-sense had not been very striking in his interview with Mr, 
Toogood, but yet he had talked more rationally then and had given a 
better account of the matter in hand than could have been expected 
from him for some weeks previously. But now that the labour was 
over, a reaction had come upon him, and he went away from his house 
having hardly spoken a word to his wife after the speech which he made 
about his duty to his parish. 

I think that at this time nobody saw clearly the working of his 
mind, — not even his wife, who studied it very closely, who gave him 
credit for all his high qualities, and who had gradually learned to 
acknowledge to herself that she must distrust his judgment in many 
things. She knew that he was good and yet weak, that he was afflicted 
by false pride and supported by true pride, that his intellect was still 
very bright, yet so dismally obscured on many sides as almost to justify 
people in saying that he waa mad. She knew that he was almost a 
saint, and yet almost a castaway through vanity and hatred of those 
above him. But she did n«t know that he knew all this of himselt 
also. She did not comprehend that he should be hourly telling himr 
self that people were calling him mad and were so calling him with truth. 
It did not occur to her that he could see her insight into him. She 
doubted as to the way in which he had got the cheque, — never imagin- 
ing, however, that he had wilfully stolen it ; — thinking that his mind 
had been so much astray as to admit of his finding it and using it 
without wilful guilt, — thinking also, alas, that a man who could so act 
was hardly fit for such duties as those which were entrusted to him. But 
she did not dream that this was precisely, his own idea of his own state 
and of his own position ; — that he was always inquiring of himself 
whether he was not mad ; whether, if mad, he was not bound to lay 
down his office; that he was ever taxing himself with improper hostility 
to the bishop, — never forgetting for a moment his wrlith against the 
bishop and the bishop's wife, still comforting himself with his triumph 
over the bishop and the bishop's wife, — but, for all that, accusing 
himself of a heavy sin and proposing to himself to go to the palace 
and there humbly to relinquish his clerical authority. Such a course 

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of action he was proposing to himself, hut not with any realized idea 
that he would so act. He was as a man who walks along a river's hank 
thinking of suicide, calculating how hest he might kill himself, — 
whether the river does not offer an opportunity too good to he neglected, 
telling himself that for many reaaons he had hetter do so, suggesting 
to himself that the water is pleasant and cool, and that his ears would 
soon he deaf to the harsh noises of the world, — hut yet knowing, or 
thinking that he knows, that he will never kill himself. So it was 
with Mr. Crawley. Though his imagination pictured to himself the 
whole scene, — how he would humble himself to the ground as he 
acknowledged his unfitness, how he would endure the small- voiced 
triumph of the little bishop, how, from the abjectness of his own 
humility, even from the ground on which he would be crouching, he 
would rebuke the loud-mouthed triumph of the bishop's wife j though 
there was no touch wanting to the picture which he thus drew, — ^he did 
not really propose to himself to commit this professional suicide. His 
wife, too, had considered whether it might be in truth becoming that 
he should give up his clerical duties at any rate for a while ; but she 
had never thought that the idea was present to his mind also. 

Mr. Toogood had told him that people would say that he was mad ; 
and Mr. Toogood had looked at him, when he declared for the second 
time that he had no knowledge whence the cheque had come to him, as 
though his words were to be regarded as the words of some sick child. 
" Mad I " he said to himself, as he walked home from the station that 
night. " Well ; yes j and what if I am mad 1 When I think of aU 
that I have endured my wonder is that I should not have been mad 
sooner." And then he prayed, — yes, prayed, that in his madness the 
Devil might not be too strong for him, and that he might be preserved 
from some terrible sin of murder or violence. What, if the idea should 
come to him in his madness that it would be well for him to slay his 
wife and his children 1 Only that was wanting to make him of all 
men the most unfortunate. 

He went down among the brickmakers on the following morning, 
leaving the house almost without a morsel of food, and he remained at 
Hoggle End for the greater part of the day. There were sick persons 
there with whom he prayed, and then he sat talking with rough men 
while they ate their dinners, and he read passages from the Bible to 
women while they washed their husbands' ck thes. And for a while he 


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sat with a little giii in his lap teaching the child her alphabet. If it 
were possible for him he would do his duty. He would spare himself 
in nothing, though he might suffer even to fainting. And on this 
occasion he did suffer, — almost to fainting, for as as he returned hotae 
in the afternoon he w«u3 forced to lean from time to time against the 
banks on the road-side, while the cold sweat of weakness trickled down 
his face, in order that he might recover strength to go on a few yards. 
But he would persevere. If God would but leave to him mind enough 
for his work, he would go on. !N^o personal suffering should deter him. 
He told himself that there had been men in the world whose sufferings 
were sharper even than his own. Of what sort had been the life of 
the man who had stood for years on the top of a pillar ] But then 
the man on the pillar had been honoured by all around him. And 
thus, though he had thought of the man on the pillar to encourage 
himself by remembering how lamentable had been that man's suffering, 
he came ro reflect that after all his own sufferings were perhaps keener 
than those of the man on the pillar. 

When he reached home, he was very ill. There was no doubt about 
it then. He staggered to his arm-chair, and stared at his wife first, 
then smiled at her with a ghastly smile. He trembled all over, and 
when food was brought to him he could not eat it. Early on the nfext 
morning the doctor was by his bedside, and before that evening came 
he was delirious. He had been at intervals in this state for nearly two 
days, when Mrs. Crawley wrote to Grace, and though she had restrained 
herself from telling everything, she had written with sufficient strength 
to bring Grace at once to her father's bedside. 

He was not so ill when Grace arrived but that he knew her, and he 
seemed to receive some comfort from her coming. Before she had been 
in the house an hour she was reading Greek to him, and there was no 
wandering in his mind as to the due emphasis to be given to the plaints 
of the injured heroines, or as to the proper meaning of the choruses. 
And as he lay with his head half buried in the pillows, he shouted out 
long passages, lines from tragic plays by the score, and for a while 
seemed to have all the enjoyment of a dear old pleasure placed newly 
within his reach. But he tired of this after a while, and then, having 
looked round to see that his wife was not in the room, he began to talk 
of himself. 

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" So you have "been to Allington, my dear? *' 

" Yes, papa." 

" Is it a pretty place 1 " 

" Yes, papa ; — very pretty." 

" And they were good to you % " 

" Yes, papa ; — very good." 

" Had they heard anything there ahout — me ; of this trial that is to 
come onl" 

" Yes, papa j they had heard of it." 

" And what did they say 1 You need not think that you will shock 
me by telling me. They cannot say worse there than people have said 
here, — or think worse." 

" They don't think at all badly of you at Allington, papa." 

** But they must think badly of me if the magistrates were right V 

" They suppose that there has been a mistake ; — as we all think." 

** They do not try men at the as?izes for mistakes." 

"That you have been mistaken, I mean; — ^and the magistrates 

" Both cannot have been mistaken, Grace." 

" I don't know how to explain myself, papa ; but we all know that 
it is very sad, and are quite sure that you have never meant for one 
moment to do anything that was wrong." 

" But people when they are, — ^you know what I mean, Grace ; when 
they are not themselves,— do things that are wrong without meaning 
it." Then he paused, while she remamod standing by him with her 
hand on the back of his. She was looking at his face, which had been 
turned towards her while they were reading together, but which now 
was so far moved that she knew that his eyes could not be fixed upon 
hers. " Of course if the bishop orders it, it shall be so," he said. " It 
is quite enough for me that he is the bishop.*' 

" What has the bishop ordered, papa % " 

*' ITothing at alL It is she who does it He has given no opinion 
about it. Of course not. He has none to give. It is the woman. You 
go and tell her from me that in such a matter I will not obey the word 
of any woman living. G^ at once, when I tell you." Then she knew 
that her father's mind was wandering, and she knelt down by the 
bedside, still holding his hand. '< Grace," he said. 


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" Yes, papa, I am here." 

" Why do you not do what I tell you 1 " And he sat upright in his 
hed. " I suppose you are afraid of the woman ] " 

** I should be afraid of her, dear papa." 

" I was not afraid of her. When she spoke to me, I would have 
nothing to say to her ;— not a word ; not a word ; — ^not a word." As 
he said this he waved his hands about. ** But as for him, — ^if it must 
be, it must. I know I'm not fit for it. Of course I am not. Who 
is? -But what has he ever done that he should be a dean 1 I beat him 
at everything ; almost at everything. He got the Newdegate and that 
was about alL Upon my word I think that was alL" 

" But Dr. Arabin loves you truly, dear papa." 

" Love me ! psha ! Does he ever come here to tea, as he used to do. 
No ! I remember buttering toast for him down on my knees before the 
fire, because he liked it, — and keeping all the cream for him. He 
should have had my heart's blood if he wanted it. But now ; — look 
at his books, Grace. It's the outside of them he cares about They 
are all gilt, but I doubt if he ever reads. As for her, — I will not allow 
any woman to tell me my duty. No ; — ^by my Maker ; not even your 
mother, who is the best of women. And as for her, with her little 
husband dangling at her apron-strings, as a call-whistle to be blown 
into when she pleases, — ^that she should dare to teach me my duty ! 
No ! The men in the jury-box may decide it how they will. If they 
can believe a plain story, let them! If not, — ^let them do as they 
please. I am ready to bear it alL" 

*' Dear papa, you are tired. Will you not try to sleep ] " 

" Tell Mrs. Proudie what I say ; and as for Arabin's money, I took 
it. I know I took it. What would you have had me do 1 Shall I 
— see them — aU — starve 1 " Then he fell back upon his bed and did 

The next day he was better, and insisted upon getting out of bed, 
and on sitting in his old arm-chair over the fire. And the Greek books 
were again had out ; and Grace, not at all unwillingly, was put through 
her facings. " If you don't take care, my dear," he said, " Jane will 
beat you yet. She understands the force of the verbs better than 
you do." 

" I am very glad that she is doing so well, papa. I am sure I shall 
not begrudge her her superiority." 

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'* Ah, but you should begradge it her ! " Jane was sitting by at the 
time, and the two sisters were holding each other by the hand. 
" Always to be best ; — ^always to be in advance of others. That should 
be your motto." 

" But we can't both be best, papa,*' said Jane. 

" You can both strive to be best. But Grace has the better voice. 
I remember when I knew the whole of the Antigone by heart. You 
girls should see which can learn it first." 

" It would take such a long time," said Jane. 

"You are young, and what can you do better with your leisure 
hours ] Fie, Jane I I did not expect that from you. When I was 
learning it I had eight or nine pupils, and read an hour a day with 
each of them. But I think that nobody works now as they used to 
work then. Where is your mamma ] Tell her I think I could get out 
as far as Mrs. Cox's, if she would help me to dress." Soon after this 
he was in bed again, and his head was wandering ; but still they knew 
that he was better than he had been. 

** You are more of a comfort to your papa than I can be," said Mrs. 
Crawley to her eldest daughter that night as they sat together, when 
everybody else was in bed. 

" Do not say that, mamma. Papa does not think so." 

" I cannot read Greek plays to him as you can do. I can only nurse 
him in his illness and endeavour tq do my duty. Do you know, Grace, 
that I am beginning to fear that he half doubts me ? " 

"Oh, mammal" 

"That he half doubts me, and is half afraid of me. He does not 
think as he used to do, that I am altogether, heart and soul, on his side. 
I can see it in his eye as he watches me. He thinks that I am tired 
of him,— tired of his sufferings, tired of his poverty, tired of the evil 
which men say of him. I am not sure but what he thinks that I 
suspect him." 

"Of what, mamma]" 

" Of general unfitiiess for the work he has to do. The feeling is not 
strong as yet, but I fear that he will teach himself to think that he has 
an enemy at his hearth, — ^not a friend. It will be the saddest mistake 
he ever made." 

" He told me to-day that you were the best of women. Those were 
his very words." 

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" Were they, my dew ? I am glad at least that he should say so to 
you. He has been better since you came ; — a great deal better. For 
one day I was frightened; but I am sorry now that I sent for 

** I am so glad, mamma ; so very glad." 

** You were happy there, — and comfortable. And if they were glad 
to have you, why should I have brought you away ? " 

" But I was not happy ; — even though they were very good to me. 
How could I be happy there when I was thinking of you and papa and 
Jane here at home 1 Whatever there is here, I would sooner share it 
with you than be anywhere else, — while this trouble lasts." 

" My darling ! — it is a great comfort to see you again." 

" Only that I knew that one less in the house would be a saving to 
you I should not have gone. When there is unhappiness, people 
should stay together ; — shouldn't they, mamma ? They were sitting 
quite close to each other, on an old sofa in a small upstairs room^ from 
which a door opened into the larger chamber in which Mr. Crawley was 
Ijring. It had been arranged between them that on this night Mrs. 
Crawley should remain with her husband, and that Grace should go to 
her bed. It was now past one o'clock, but she was still there, clinging 
to her mother's side, with her mother's arm drawn round her. 
"Mamma," she said, when they had both been silent for some ten 
minutes, " I have got something to tell you." 


" Yes, mamma ; to-night, if you will let me." 

" But you promised that you would go to bed. You were up all last 

" I am not sleepy, mamma." 

"Of course you shall tell me what you please, dearest. Is it a 
secret? Is it something that I am not to repeat ? " 

" You must say how that ought to be, mamma. I shall not tell it 
to any one else." 

"WeU, dear?" 

" Sit comfortably, mamma ; — there ; like that, and let me have your 
hand. It's a terrible story to have to tell." 

" A terrible story, Grace ? " 

" I mean that you must not draw away from me. I shall want to 

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feel that you are quite close to me. Mamma, while I was at Allingtou, 
Major Grautly came there." 

**Didhe, my dear?" 

" Yes, mamma." 

" Did he know them before % " 

" No, mamma ; not at the Small House. But he came there — to see 
me. He asked me — to he his wife. Don't move, mamma." 

" My darling child ! I won't move, dearest. Well ; and what did 
you say to him 1 God bless him, at any rate. May God bless him, 
because he has seen with a true eye, and felt with a noble instinct. 
It is something, Grace, to have been wooed by such a man at such a 

" Mamma, it did make me feel proud ; it did." 

" You had known him well before, — of course 1 I knew that you 
and he were friends, Grace." 

*' Yes, we were friends, t always liked him. I used not to know 
what to think about him. Miss Anne Prettyman told me that it would 
be so ; and once before I thought so, myself." 

" And had you made up your mind what to say to him 1 " 

" Yes, I had then. But I did not say it." 

" Did not say what you had made up your mind to say 1 " 

" That was before all this had happened to papa." 

**I understand you, dearest." 

" When Miss Anne Prettyman told me that I should be ready with 
my answer, and when I saw that Miss Prettyman herself used to let 
him come to the house and seemed to wish that I should see him when 
he came, and when he once was — so very gentle and kind, and when 
he said that he wanted me to love Edith Oh, mamma ] " 

" Yes, darling, I know. Of course you loved him." 

"Yes, mamma. And I do love him. How could one not love 

" I love him, — for loving you." 

" But, mamma, one is bound not to do a harm to any one that one 
loves. So when he came to Allington I told him that I could not be 
his wife." 

" Did you, my dear V 

** Yes j • I did. Was I not right 1 Ought I to go to him to bring a 

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disgrace upon all the family, just because he is so good that he asks mel 
Shall I injure him because he wants to do me a service 1 " 

" If he loves you, Grace, the service he will require wiU be your love 
in return." 

" That is all very well, mamma, — in books ; but I do not believe it 
in reality. Being in love is very nice, and in poetry they make it out 
to be everything. But I do not think I should make Major Grantly 
happy if when I became his wife his own father and mother would not 
see him. I know I should be so wretched, myself, that I could not 

"But would it be so r' 

" Yes ; — I think it would. And the archdeacon is very rich, and 
can leave all his money away from Major Grantly if he pleases. 
Think what I should feel if I were the cause of Edith losing her 
fortune ! " 

" But why do you suppose these terrible things ] " 

" I have a reason for supposing them. This must be a secret Miss 
Anne Prettyman wrote to me." 

" I wish Miss Anne Prettyman's hand had been in the fire." 

" No, mamma ; no ; she was right. Would not I have wished, do 
you think, to have learned all the truth about the matter before I 
answered him % Besides, it made no difference. I could have made 
no other answer while papa is under such a terrible ban. It is no time 
for us to think of being in love. We have got to love each other. 
Isn't it so, mamma 1 " The mother did not answer in words, but slip- 
ping down on her knees before her child threw her arms round her 
girl's body in a close embrace. " Dear mamma ; dearest mamma j this 
is what I wanted ; — that you should love me ! " 

" Love you, my angel ! " 

" And trust me ; — and that we should understand each other, and 
stand close by each other. We can do so much to comfort one another ; 
— but we cannot comfort other people." 

" He must know that best himself, Grace ; — but what did he say 
more to you ? " 

" I don't think he said anything more." 

" He just left you then ? " 

" He said one thing more." 

" And what was that % " 

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" He said ; — but he had no right to say it." 

" What was it, dear r* 

^ That he knew I loved him, and that therefore But, mamma, 

do not think of that. I will never be his wife, — never, in opposition 
to his family." 

** But he did not take your answer 1 " 

''He must take it, mamma. He shall take it. If he can be 
stubborn, so can I. If he knows how to think of me more than him- 
self, I can think of him and Edith more than of myself. That is not 
quite all, mamma. Then he wrote to me. There is his letter." 

Mrs. Crawley read the letter. " I suppose you answered it 1 " 

" Yes, I answered it. It was very bad, my letter. I should think 
after that he will never want to have anything more to say to me. I 
tried for two days, but I could not write a nice letter." 

" But what did you say ? " 

" I don't in the least remember. It does not in the least signify 
now, but it was such a bad letter." 

" I daresay it was very nice." 

" It was terribly stiff, and all about a gentleman." 

" All about a gentleman ! What do you mean, my dear % " 

" Gentleman is suchja frightful word to have to use to a gentleman ; 
but I did not know what else to say. Mamma, if you please, we won't 
talk about it ; — not about the letter I mean. As for him, 111 talk 
about him for ever if you like it. I don't mean to be a bit broken- 

" It seems to me that he is a gentleman." 

" Yes, mamma, that he is ; and it is that which makes me so proud. 
When I think of it, I can hardly hold myself. But now I've told you 
everything, and I'll go away, and go to bed." 

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Mr. Toogood paid another visit to Barsetshire, in order that he might 
get a little further information which he thought would be necessary 
before despatching his nephew upon the traces of Dean Arabin and 
his wife. He went down to Barchester a'fter his work was over by an 
evening train, and put himself up at "The Dragon of. Wantly," 
intending to have the whole of the next day for his work. Mr. Walker 
had asked him to come and take a return pot-luck dinner with Mrs. 
"Walker at Silverbridge ; and this he had said that he would do. After 
having " rummaged about for tidings " in Barchester, as he called it, he 
would take the train to Silverbridge, and would get back to town in 
time for business on the third day. " One day won't be much, you 
know," he said to his partner, as he made half an apology for absenting 
himself on business which was not to be in any degree remunerative. 

"That sort of thing is very well when one does it without any 
expense," said Crump. 

" So it is," said Toogood ; " and the expense won't make it any 
worse." He had made up his mind, and it was not probable that any- 
thing Mr. Crump might say would deter him. 

He saw John Eames before he started. " You'll be ready this day 
week, will you % " John Eames promised that he would. " It will 
cost you some forty pounds, I should say. By George, if you have 
to go on to Jerusalem, it will cost you more." In answer to this, 
Johnny pleaded that it would be as good as any other tour to him. 
He would see the world. " I'll tell you what," said Toogood ; " Til 
pay half. Only you mustn't tell Crump. And it will be quite as well 
not to tell Maria." But Johnny would hear nothing of this scheme. 
He would pay the entire cost of his own journey. He had lots of 
money, he said, and would like nothing better. " Then I'll run down " 

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said Toogood, " and rummage up what tidings I can. As for writing to 
the dean, what's the good of writing to a man wheu you don't know 
where he is 1 Business letters always lie at hotels for two months, and 
then come back with double postage. From all I can hear, you'll 
stumble on her before you find him. If we do nothing but bring him 
back, it wiU be a great thing to have the support of such a friend in 
the court. A Barchester jury won't like to find a man guilty who is 
band-and-glove with the dean." 

Mr. Toogood reached the "Dragon" about eleven o'clock, and 
allowed the boots to give him a pair of slippers and a candlestick. But 
he would not go to bed just at that moment. He would go into the 
coffee-room first, and have a glass of hot brandy-and-water. So the 
hot brandy-and-water was Ijrought to him, and a cigar, and as he 
smoked and drank he conversed with the waiter. The man was a 
waiter of the ancient class, a gray-haired waiter, with seedy clothes, and 
a dirty towel under his arm ; not a dapper waiter, with black shiny 
hair, and dressed like a guest for a dinner-party. There are two distinct 
classes of waiters, and as far as I have been able to perceive, the special 
status of the waiter in question cannot be decided by observation of 
the class of waiter to which he belongs. In such a town as Barchester 
you may find the old waiter with the dirty towel in the head inn, or 
in the second-class inn, and so you may the dapper waiter. Or you 
may find both in each, and not know which is senior waiter and which 
junior waiter. But for service I always prefer the old waiter with the 
dirty towel, and I find it more easy to satisfy him in the matter of 
sixpences when my relations with the inn come to an end. 

" Have you been here long, John 1 " said Mr. Toogood. 

" A goodish many years, sir." 

" So I thought, by the look of you. One can see that you belong 
in a way to the place. You do a good deal of business here, I suppose, 
at this time of the year % " 

" Well, sir, pretty fair. The house ain't what it used to be, sir." 

" Times are bad at Barchester, — are they 1 " 

" I don't know much about the times. It's the people is worse than 
the times, I think. They used to like to have a little bit of dinner 
now and again at a hotel ! — and a drop of something to drink after 

** And don't they like it now ] " 

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" I think they like it well enough, but they don't do it. I suppose 
it*8 their wives as don't let 'em come out and enjoy theirselves. There 
used to be the Groose and Glee club ; — ^that was once a month. They've 
gone and clean done away with themselves, — that club has. There's 
old Bumpter in the High Street, — he's the last of the old Geese. They 
died off, you see, and when Mr. Biddle died they wouldn't choose 
another president. A club for having dinner, sir, ain't nothing without 
a president." 

'* I suppose not." 

" And there's the Freemasons. They must meet, you know, sir, in 
course, because of the dooties. But if you'll believe me, sir, they don't 
so much as wet their whistles. They don't indeed. It always used to 
be a supper, and that was once a month. Now they pays a rent for 
the use of the room ! Who is to get a living out of that, sir? — ^not in 
the way of a waiter, that is." 

" If that's the way things are going on I suppose the servants leave 
their places pretty often ] " 

" I don't know about that, sir. A man may do a deal worse than 
* The Dragon of Wantly.* Them as goes away to better themselves, 
often worses themselves, as I call it. I've seen a good deal of that." 

" And you stick to the old shop % " 

" Yes, sir ; I've been here fifteen year, I think it is. There's a many 
goes away, as doesn't go out of their own heads, you know, sir." 
* " They get the sack, you mean ? " 

" There's words between them and master, — or more likely, missus. 
That's where it is. Servants is so foolish. I often teU 'em how wrong 
folks are to say that soft words butter no parsnips, and hard words 
break no bones." 

" I think you've lost some of the old hands here since this time last 
year, John ] " 

" You knows the house then, sir ] " 

" Well ; — I've been here before." 

" There was four of them went, I think it's just about twelve months 
back, sir." 

^* There was a man in the yard I used to know, and last time I was 
down here I found that he was gone." 

" There was one of *em out of the yard, and two out of the house 

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Master and them had got to very high words. There was poor Scuttle, 
who had heen post-hoy at * The Compasses ' before he came here." 

** He went away to New Zealand, didn't he ] " 

" Brieve he did, sir ; or to some foreign parts. And Anne, as was 
under-chambermaid here : she went with him, fool as she was. ' They 
got theirselves married and went off, and he was well nigh as old as 
me. But seems he'd saved a little money, and that goes a long way 
with any girl." 

" Was he the man who drove Mr. Soames that day the cheque was 
lost % " Mr. Toogood asked tliis question perhaps a little too abruptly. 
At any rate he obtained no answer to it. The waiter said he knew 
nothing of Mr. JSoames, or the cheque, and the lawyer suspecting that 
the waiter was suspecting him, finished his brandy-and- water and went 
to bed. 

Early on the following morning he observed that he was specially 
regarded by a shabby-looking man, dressed in black, but in a black suit 
that was very old, with a red nose, whom he had seen in the hotel on 
the preceding day ; and he learned that this man was a cousin of the 
landlord, — one Dan Stringer, — who acted as a clerk in the hotel bar. 
He took an opportunity also of saying a word to Mr. Stringer the 
landlord, — whom he found to be a somewhat forlorn and gouty indi- 
vidual, seated on cushions in a little parlour behind the bar. After 
breakfast he went out, and having twice walked round the Cathedral 
Close and inspected the front of the palace and looked up at the 
windows of the prebendaries' houses, he knocked at the door of the 
deanery. The dean and Mrs. Arabin were on the Continent, he was 
told. Then he asked for Mr. Harding, having learned that Mr. Harding 
was Mrs. Arabin's father, and that he lived at the deanery. Mr. 
Harding was at home, but was not very well, the servant said. Mr. 
Toogood, however, persevered, sending up his card, and saying that he 
wished to have a few minutes' conversation with Mr. Harding on very 
particular business. He wrote a word upon his card before giving it 
to the servant, — " about Mr. Crawley." In a few minutes he was shown 
into the library, and had hardly time, while looking at the shelves, to 
remember what Mr. Crawley had said of his anger at the beautiful 
bindings, before an old man, very thin and very pale, shuffled into the 
room. He stooped a good deal, and his black clothes were very loose 

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about his shrunken limbs. He was not decrepit, nor did he seem to 
be one who had advanced to extreme old age ; but yet he shuffled 
rather than walked, hardly raising his feet from the ground. Mr. 
Toogood, as he came forward to meet him, thought that he had never 
seen a sweeter face. There was very much melancholy in it, of that 
soft sadness of age which seems to acknowledge, and in some sort to 
regret, the waning oil of life ; but the regret to be read in such faces 
has in it nothing of .the bitterness of grief ; there is no repining that 
the end has come, but simply a touch of sorrow that so much that is 
dear must be left behind. Mr. Harding shook hands with his visitor, 
and invited him to sit down, and then seated himself, folding his hands 
together over his knees, and he said a few words in a very low voice as 
to the absence of his daughter and of the dean. 

** I hope you will excuse my troubling you," said Mr. Toogood. 

" It is no trouble at all, — if I could be of any use. I don't know 
whether it is proper, but may I ask whether you call as — as — as a 
fiiend of Mr. Crawley's % " 

" Altogether as a friend, Mr. Harding." 

"Tm glad of that; though of course I am well aware that the 
gentlemen engaged on the prosecution must do their duty. Still, — I 
don't know, — somehow I would rather not hear them speak of this 
poor gentleman before the trial." 

" You know Mr. Crawley, then ] " 

"Yery slightly, — ^very slightly indeed. He is a gentleman not 
much given to social habits, and has been but seldom here. But he 
is an old friend whom my son-in-law loves dearly." 

" Fm glad to hear you say that, Mr. Harding. Perhaps before I go 
any further I ought to tell you that Mrs. Crawley and I are first- 

** Oh, indeed. Then you are a friend." 

** I never saw him in my life till a few days ago. He is very queer, 
you know, — ^very queer indeed. I'm a lawyer, Mr. Harding, practising 
in London; — an attorney that is." At each separate announcement 
Mr. Harding bowed, and when Toogood named his special branch of 
his profession Mr. Harding bowed lower than before, as though 
desirous of showing that he had great respect for attorneys. " And 
of course I'm anxious, if only out of respect for the family, that my 
wife's cousin should pull through this little difllculty, if possible." 

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" And for the sake of the poor man himself too, and for his wife, 
and his children ; — and for the sake of the cloth." 

"Exactly; taking it all together it's such a pity, you know. I 
think, Mr. Harding, he can hardly have intended to steal the money.*' 

" Fm sure he did not.'* 

" It's very hard to be sure of anybody, Mr. Harding; — ^very hard." 

"I feel quite sure that he did not. He has been a most pious, 
hard-working clergyman. I cannot bring myself to think that he is 
guilty. What does the Latin proverb say 1 ' No one of a sudden 
becomes most base.' " 

"But the temptation, Mr. Harding, was very strong. He was 
awfully badgered about his debts. That butcher in Silverbridge was 
playing the mischief with him." 

" All the butchers in Barsetshire could not make an honest man 
steal money, and I think that Mr. Crawley is an honest man. You'll 
excuse me for being a little hot about one of my own order." 

" Why ; he is my cousin, — or rather, my wife's. But the fact is, 
Mr. Harding, we must get hold of the dean as soon as possible ; and 
I'm going to send a gentleman after him." 

"To send a gentleman after him?" said Mr. Harding, almost in 

" Yes ; I think that will be best." 

" I'm afraid he'll have to go a long way, Mr. Toogood." 

" The dean, I'm told, is in Jerusalem." 

" I'm afraid he is, or on his journey there. He's to be there for 
the Easter week, and Sunday week will be Easter Sunday. But why 
should the gentleman want to go to Jerusalem after the dean ? " 

Then Mr. Toogood explained as well as he was able that the dean 
might have something to say on the subject which would serve Mr. 
Crawley's defence. "We shouldn't leave any stone unturned," said 
Mr. Toogood. "As far as I can judge, Crawley still thinks, — or half 
thinks, — ^that he got the cheque from your son-in-law." Mr. Harding 
shook his head sorrowfully. "I'm not saying he did, you know," 
continued Mr. Toogood. " I can't see myself how it is possible ; — but 
still, we ought not to leave any stone unturned. And Mrs. Arabin, 
— can you tell me at all where we shall find her ? " 

" Has she anything to do with it, Mr. Toogood % " 

" I can't quite say that she has, but it's just possible. As I said 

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before, Mr. Harding, we mustn't leave a stone unturned. They're not 
expected here till the end of April 1 " 

"About the 25th or 26th, I think." 

" And the assizes are the 28th. The judges come into the city on 
that day. It will be too late to wait till then. We must have our 
defence ready you know. Can you say where my friend will find Mrs. 

Mr. Harding began nursing his knee, patting it and being very tender 
to it, as he sat meditating with his head on one side, — ^meditating not 
so much as to the nature of his answer as to that of the question. 
Could it be necessary that any emissary from a lawyer's office should 
be sent after his daughter % He did not like the idea of his Eleanor 
being disturbed by questions as to a theft. Though she had been twice 
married and had a son who was now nearly a man, still she was his 
Eleanor. But if it was necessary on Mr. Crawley's behalf, of course it 
must be done. " Her last address was at Paris, sir ; but I think she 
has gone on to Florence. She has friends there, and she purposes to 
meet the dean at Venice on his return." Then Mr. Harding turned 
the table and wrote on a card his daughter's address. 

" I suppose Mrs. Arabin must have heard of the affair % " said Mr. 

** She had not done so when she last wrote. I mentioned it to her 
the other day, before I knew that she had left Paris. If my letters 
and her sister's letters have been sent on to her, she must know it now." 

Then Mr. Toogood got up to take his leave. " You will excuse me 
for troubling you, I hope, Mr. Harding." 

" Oh, sir, pray do not mention that. It is no trouble, if one could 
only be of any service." 

** One can always try to be of service. In these affairs so much is 
to be done by rummaging about, as I always call it. There have been 
many theatrical managers, you know, Mr. Harding, who have usually 
made up their pieces according to the dresses they have happened to 
have in their wardrobes." 

" Have there, indeed, now % I never should have thought of that." 

" And we lawyers have to do the same thing." 

" Not with your clothes, Mr. Toogood ? 

" Not exactly with our clothes ; — but with our information." 

" I do. not quite understand you, Mr. Toogood." 

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" In preparing a defence we have to rummage about and get up what 
we 3an. K we can't find anything that suits us exactly, we are obliged 
to u. e what we do find as well as we can. I remember, when I was a 
youn • man, an ostler was to be tried for stealing some oats in the 
Borou T^h ; and he did steal them too, and sold them at a rag-shop 
regular y. The evidence against him was as plain as a pike-staff. All 
I could find out was that on a certain day a horse had trod on the 
fellow's foot. So we put it to the jury whether the man could walk 
as far as .he rag-shop with a bag of oats when he was dead-lame ; — and 
we got him off." 

" Did you though ? " said Mr. Harding. 

"Yes, we did." 

" And he was guilty ? " 

" He had been at it regularly for months." 

"Dear, det,r, dear ! Wouldn't it have been better to have had him 
punished for the fault, — gently ; so as to warn him of the consequences 
of such doings ] " 

" Our business was to get him off, — and we got him off. It's my 
business to get my cousin's husband off, if I can, and we must do it, 
by hook or crook. It's a very difficult piece of work, because he won't 
let us employ a barrister. However, I shall have one in the court and 
say nothing, to him about it at all. Good-bye, Mr. Harding. As you 
say, it would be a thousand pities that a clergyman should be convicted 
of a theft ; — ^and one so well connected too." 

Mr. Harding, when he was left alone, began to turn the matter over 
in his mind and to reflect whether the thousand pities of which Mr. 
Toogood had spoken appertained to the conviction of the criminal, or 
the doing of the crime. "If he did steal the money I suppose he 
ought to be punished, let him be ever so much a clergyman," said 
Mr. Harding to himself. But yet, — how terrible it would be ! Of 
clergymen convicted of fraud in London he had often heard ; but 
nothing of the kind had ever disgraced the diocese to which he belonged 
since he had known it. He could not teach himself to hope that 
Mr. Crawley should be acquitted if Mr. Crawley were guilty ; — but he 
could teach himself to believe that Mr. Crawley was innocent. 
Something of a doubt had crept across his mind as he talked to the 
lawyer. Mr. Toogood, though Mi-s. Crawley was his cousin, seemed to 
believe that the money had been stolen ; and Mr. Toogood as a lawyer 

VOL. I. D D 

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ought to understand such matters better than an old secluded clergyman 
in Barchester. But, nevertheless, Mr. Toogood might be wrong ; and 
Mr. Harding succeeded in satisfying himself at last that he could not 
be doing harm in thinking that Mr. Toogood was wrong. When he 
had made up his mind on this matter he sat down and wrote the 
following letter, which he addressed to his daughter at the post-office 
in Florence : — 

" Deanery, March — , 186 — . 

** Dearest Nelly, — When I wrote on Tuesday I told you about poor 
Mr. Crawley, that he was the clergyman in Barsetshire of whose 
misfortune you read an account in Galignani's Messenger, — and I think 
Susan must have written about it also, because everybody here is 
talking of nothing else, and because, of course, we know how strong a 
regard the dean has for Mr. Crawley. But since that something has 
occurred which makes me write to you again, — at once. A gentleman 
has just been here, and has indeed only this moment left me, who 
tells me that he is an attorney in London, and that he is nearly related 
to Mrs. Crawley. He seems to be a very good-natured man, and I 
daresay he understands his business as a lawyer. His name is Toogood, 
and he has come down as he says to get evidence to help the poor 
gentleman on his trial I cannot understand how this should be 
necessary, because it seems to me that the evidence should aU be 
wanted on the other side. I cannot for a moment suppose that a clergy- 
man and a gentleman such as Mr. Crawley should have stolen money, 
and if he is innocent I cannot understand why all this trouble should 
be necessary to prevent a jury finding him guilty. 

" Mr. Toogood came here because he wanted to see the dean, — and 
you also. He did not explain, as far as I can remember, why he 
wanted to see you ; but he said it would be necessary, and that he 
was going to send off a messenger to find you first, and the dean after- 
wards. It has something to do with the money which was given to 
Mr. Crawley l«ist year, and which, if I remember right, was your 
present. But of course Mr. Toogood could not have known anything 
about that. However, I gave him the address, — poste restante, 
Florence, — and I daresay that somebody will make you out before 
long, if you are stiU stopping at Florence^ I did not like letting him 

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go without telling you about it, as I thought that a lawyer's coming 
to you would startle you. 

" The bairns are quite well, as I told you in my other letter, and 
Miss Jones says that little Elly is as good as gold. They are with me 
every morning and evening, and behave like darling angels, as they 
are. Posy is my own little jewel always. You may be quite sure I do 
nothing to spoil them. 

** Grod bless you, dearest Nelly, 

" Your most affectionate father, 

"Sbptimus Harding." 

^ter this he wrote another letter to his other daughter, Mrs. Grantly, 
telling her also of Mr. Toogood's visit ; and then he spent the remainder 
of the day thinking over the gravity of the occurrence. How terrible 
would it be if a beneficed clergyman in the diocese should really be 
found guilty of theft by a jury from the city ! And then he had 
always heard so high a character of this man from his son-in-law. No, 
— ^it was impossible to believe that Mr, Crawley had in truth stolen a 
cheque for twenty pounds ! 

Mr. Toogood could get no other information in Barchester, and went 
on to Silverbridge early in the afternoon. He was half disposed to go 
by Hogglestock and look up his cousin, whom he had never seen, and 
his cousin's husband, upon whose business he was now intent ; but 
on reflection he feared that he might do more harm than good. He 
had quite appreciated the fact that Mr. Crawley was not like other 
men. " The man's not above half-saved," he had said to his wife, — 
meaning thereby to insinuate that the poor clergyman was not in full 
possession of his wits. And, to tell the truth of Mr. Toogood, he was 
a little afraid of his relative. There was a something in Mr. Crawley's 
manner, in spite of his declared poverty, and in spite also of his 
extreme humility, which seemed to announce that he expected to be 
obeyed when he spoke on any point with authority. Mr. Toogood had 
not forgotten the tone in which Mr. Crawley had said to him, " Sir, 
this thing you cannot do." And he thought that, upon the whole, he 
had better not go to Hogglestock on this occasion. 

When at Silverbridge, he began at once to " rummage about." His 
chief rummaging was to be done at Mr. Walk^'s table ; but before 

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dinner he had time to call upon the magistrates* clerk, and ask a few 
questions as to the proceedings at the sitting from which Mr. Crawley 
was committed. He found a very taciturn old man, who was nearly as 
difficult to deal with in any rummaging process as a porcupine. But, 
nevertheless, at last he reached a state of conversation which was not 
absolutely hostile. Mr. Toogood pleaded that he was the poor man s 
cousin, — pleaded that, as the family lawyer, he was naturally the poor 
man's protector at such a time as the present, — pleaded also that as the 
poor man was so very poor, no one else could come forward on his 
behalf, — and in this way somewhat softened the hard sharpness of the 
old porcupine's quills. But after all this, there was very little to be 
learned from the old porcupine. " There was not a naagistrate on the 
bench," he said, " who had any doubt that the evidence was sufficient 
to justify them in sending the case to the assizes. They had all regretted," 
— the porcupine said in his softest moment, — " that the gentleman had 
come there without a legal adviser." " Ah, that's been the mischief 
of it all ! " said Mr. Toogood, dashing his hand against the porcupine's 
mahogany table. " But the facts were so strong, Mr. Toogood ! '* 
"Nobody there to soften 'em down, you know," said Mr. Toogood, 
shaking his head. Very little more than this was learned from the 
porcupine ; and then Mr. Toogood went away, and prepared for Mr. 
Walker's dinner. 

Mr. Walker had invited Dr. Tempest and Miss Anne Prettyman and 
Major Grantly to meet Mr. Toogood, and had explained, in a manner 
intended to be haK earnest and half jocose, that though Mr. Toogood 
was an attorney, like himself, and' was at this moment engaged in a 
noble way on behalf of his cousin's husband, without any idea of receiv- 
ing back even the money which he would be out of pocket ; still he 
wasn't quite, — not quite, you know — "not quite so much of a gentleman 
as I am," — Mr. Walker would have said, had he spoken out freely that 
which he insinuated. But he contented himself with the emphasis he 
put upon the " not quite," which expressed his meaning fully. And 
Mr. Walker was correct in his opinion of Mr. Toogood. As regards the 
two attorneys I will not venture to say that either of them was not a 
" perfect gentleman." A perfect gentleman is a thing which I cannot 
define. But undoubtedly Mr. Walker was a bigger man in his way 
than was Mr. Toogood in his, and did habitually consort in the county 

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of Barsetshire with men of higher standing than those with whom Mr. 
Toogood associated in London. 

It seemed to be understood that Mr. Crawley was to be the general 
subject of conversation, and no one attempted to talk about anything 
eke. Indeed, at this time, very little else was talked about in that part 
of the county ; — not only because of the interest naturally attaching 
to the question of the susj^ected guilt of a parish clergyman, but because 
much had become lately known of Mr. Crawley's character, and because 
it was known also that an internecine feud had arisen between him and 
the bishop. It had undoubtedly become the general opinion that Mr. 
Crawley had picked up and used a cheque which was not his own ; — 
that he had, in fact, stolen it ; but there was, in spite of that belief, a 
general wish that he might be acquitted and left in his living. And 
when the tidings of Mr. Crawley's victory over the bishop at the palace 
had become bruited about, popular sympathy went with the victor. The 
theft was, as it were, condoned, and people made excuses which were 
not always rational, but which were founded on the instincts of true 
humanity.- And now the tidings of another stage in the battle, as fought 
against Mr. Crawley by the bishop, had gone forth through the county, 
and men had heard that the rural dean was to be instructed to make 
inquiries which should be preliminary to proceedings against Mr. 
Crawley in an ecclesiastical court. Dr. Tempest, who was now about 
to meet Mr. Toogood at Mr. Walker's, was the rural dean to whom Mr. 
Crawley would have to submit himself in any such inquiry ; but Dr. 
Tempest had not as yet received from the bishop any official order on 
the subject. 

" We are so delighted to think that you have taken up your cousin's 
case," said Mrs. Walker to Mr. Toogood, almost in a whisper. 

" He is not just my cousin, himself," said Mr. Toogood, " but of 
course it's all the same thing. And as to taking up his case, you see, 
my dear madam, he won't let me take it up." 

" I thought you had. I thought you were down here about it ? " 

'* Only on the sly, Mrs. Walker. He has such queer ideas that he 
will not allow a lawyer to be properly employed ; and you can't conceive 
how hard that makes it. Do you know him, Mrs. Walker?" 

" We know his daughter Grace." And then Mrs. Walker whispered 
something further, which we may presume to have been an intimatiou 

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that the gentleman opposite, — Major Grantly, — was supposed by some 
people to be very fond of Miss Grace Crawley. 

" Quite a child, isn't she ? " said Toogood, whose own daughter, now 
about to be married, was three or four years older than Grace. 

" She's beyond being a child, I think. Of course she is young." 

" But I suppose this affair will knock all that on the head," said the 

" I do not know how that may be ; but they do say he is very much 
attached to her. The major is a man of family, and of course it would 
be very disagreeable if Mr. Crawley were found guilty." 

" Very disagreeable, indeed ; but, upon my word, Mrs. "Walker, I 
don't know what to say about it." 

" You think it wUl go against him, Mr. Toogood 1 " Mr. Toogood 
shook his head, and, on seeing this, Mrs. Walker sighed deeply. 

" I can only say that I have heard nothing from the bishop as yet," 
said Dr. Tempest, after the ladies had left the room. " Of course, if 
he thinks well to order it, the inquiry must be made." 

" But how long would it take 1 " asked Mr. Walker. 

"Three months, I should think, — or perhaps more. Of course 
Crawley would do all that he could to delay us, and I am not at all 
sure that we should be in any very great hurry ourselves." 

" Who are the * we,' doctor % " said Mr. Walker. 

" I cannot make such an inquiry by myself, you know. I suppose 
the bishop would ask me to select two or four other clergymen to act 
with me. That's the usual way of doing it. But you may be quite 
sure of this, Walker ; the assizes will be over, and the jury have found 
their verdict long before we have settled our preliminaries." 

" And what will be the good of your going on after that ] " 

" Only this good : — if the unfortunate man be convicted " 

" Which he won't," said Mr. Toogood, who thought it expedient to 
put on a bolder front in talking of the matter to the rural dean, than 
he had assumed in his whispered conversation with Mrs. Walker. 

" I hope not, with all my heart," said the doctor. " But, perhaps, 
for the sake of the argument, the supposition may be allowed to 

" Certainly, sir," said Mr. Toogood. " For the sake of the argument, 
it may pass." 

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" If he be convicted, then, I suppose, there will be an end of the 
question. He would be sentenced for not less, I should say, than twelve 
months ; and after that " 

" And would be as good a pvarson of Hogglestock when he came out 
of prison as when he went in," said Mr. Walker. " The conviction and 
judgment in a civil court would not touch his temporality." 

" Certainly not," said Mr. Toogood. 

" Of course not," said the doctor. " We all know that ; and in the 
event of Mr. Crawley coming back to his parish it would be open to 
the bishop to raise the question as to his fitness for the duties." 

" Why shouldn't he be as fit as any one else ? " said Mr. Toogood. 

" Simply because he would have been found to be a thief," said the 
doctor. " You must excuse me, Mr. Toogood, but it's only for the sake 
of the argument." 

" I don't see what that has to do with it," said Mr. Toogood. " He 
would have undergone his penalty." 

** It is preferable that a man who preaches from a pulpit should not 
have undergone such a penalty," said the doctor. " But in practice, 
under such circumstances, — which we none of us anticipate, Mr. Toogood, 
— the living should no doubt be vacated. Mr. Crawley would probably 
hardly wish to come back. The jury will do their work before we can 
do ours, — will do it on a much better base than any we can have ; and, 
when they have done it, the thing ought to be finished. If the jury 
acquit him, the bishop cannot proceed any further. If he be found 
guilty I think that the resignation of the living must follow." 

" It is all spite, then, on the bishop's part ? " said the major. 

" Not at all," said the doctor. " The poor man is weak ; that is all. 
He is driven to persecute because he cannot escape persecution himself. 
But it may really be a question whether his present proceeding is not 
right. If I were bishop I should wait till the trial was over ; that is 

From this and from much more that was said during the evening 
on the same subject Mr. Toogood gradually learned the position which 
Mr. Crawley and the question of Mr. Crawley's guilt really held 
in the county, and he returned to town resolved to go on with the 

" m have a barrister down express, and I'll defend him in his own 

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teeth," he said to his wife. " There'll be a scene in court, I daresay, 
and the man will